Medical Homicide
by In the House
Summary: The Pranks saga continues when a stranger encountered at a reception isn't all he seems.  Follows the events of Onslaught.  House, Cuddy, Wilson friendship, and plenty of Jensen.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Medical Homicide

Rating: T

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. If they were, things would be different, referring not to the Huddy but to a lot of other general writing and character strategies over the last few years. I do own Jensen, and they can't have him - unless they want to pay me. :) Also, once again, I remind you that I am not a doctor. Research is all you can do at times, and that will be done.

A/N: Medical Homicide follows the events of Onslaught and is set in the Pranks universe. It is a 2-part story. Part one is this first chapter. Part two, taking place months later, is far longer and far more intricate, many, many chapters. This first chapter is just a prelude of sorts. Part two also is not done, nor close to it. The story is fully blocked out and known, but a lot of work getting it into shape and ready remains. So don't expect immediate updates on this one. Just thought I'd go ahead and write down chapter one while work fishing on a very light-work load going into the holiday weekend. Might as well earn reviews if I can't earn money.

This story carries warnings for abuse and very dark themes, but don't get too hung up trying to guess where I'm going from this first chapter. Things will be far more complicated and subtle than it might appear from this first glance. One of the joys of a series is having a character develop and grow, and I hope House's progress can be clearly seen in the stories. He's been in therapy with Jensen (who in my opinion is a great improvement over Nolan) for over a year now, he's working hard on things, and he has a happy family support network for the first time in his life. But yes, there are abuse moments that still come up. The past can be overcome, but it cannot be eliminated, and there will still be scars. And, as I said, the themes of this story are quite complicated and for more people than just House. Problems in this one extend well beyond House, although he will always be the central character of the story.

In addition to serious angst and problems, there will be, of course, humor, fluff, Huddy, and always an accompaniment of music, which hits all emotions equally well.

Enjoy part one!

ITH

(H/C)

_Late March_

The big reception room was a cacophony of activity, the collective sound almost a living thing, rising and falling in its own rhythm, easily audible clear down the hall. House stiffened, and his stride slowed to a crawl as he approached the door.

Cuddy, beside him, reached out with the hand that wasn't holding Rachel and hooked his left elbow. "Come on, Greg," she urged him. "You knew there would be people."

He tilted his head toward the open door looming ahead of them that formed the mouth of the volcano of noise. "_That_ is not people. That is officially a crowd." He came to a full standstill in the hall. "They haven't seen us yet. We've still got time to turn around and go home."

"Home!" Rachel agreed happily.

"See? She agrees with me. Motion carries, 2 to 1. We're outta here."

"Hold _it_!" Cuddy expertly tightened her grip, accustomed to being a traffic cop on her husband at times around the hospital. "Greg, we promised, and you have an obligation."

"They didn't say that half of New York State would be here. If the rehearsal dinner is like this, how many do you think are coming to the wedding?"

"As many as they invited." She succeeded in turning him around.

House shook his head. "I can't believe Jensen would spring this on me. People do know this is the second time around the track for them, right? The audience is supposed to get less excited for a rerun."

"Don't you dare make comments like that during the rehearsal. Or tomorrow, either. Now move," Cuddy hissed, and she started forward herself, nearly - though carefully - dragging him. House took a deep breath and followed.

The room looked much like it had sounded, a whirling beehive of activity. House and Cuddy both paused in the door, her looking for anybody they knew and him looking for an isolated corner as a retreat. Before they had finished sifting visually through the crowd, though, they were spotted themselves.

"Dr. House!" An 8-year-old girl with a mature face but happily innocent eyes sprinted up to him and nearly knocked him off balance with the force of her hug. "We've been waiting for you."

House returned the hug. "Hi, Cathy. Where's your father?"

"Dad's right over there." She released him and waved an arm toward one side of the room. House and Cuddy followed the gesture visually and then did a double-take.

It was Jensen times two. The physical similarity between the two men standing side by side was only accentuated by the fact that they wore almost the same outfits - not yet formally dressed for tomorrow's wedding, just elegantly casual for tonight's rehearsal. Even the expression and the stance were the same as they were both absorbed fully in their conversation.

Cuddy blinked. "Which one . . ." she started.

House tilted his head, looking across the room. "On the left."

"Wow." Cathy smiled up at him. "Most people besides the direct family can't tell, not without a lot of practice."

"I knew he was a twin, but I didn't realize they were identical," Cuddy stated. "That's uncanny. Did you know, Greg?"

"Identical? No. We usually talk about me, not him." He almost sounded apologetic that a piece of information had escaped his mental grasp.

"Come on," Cathy urged, tugging at him. "Dad wants to talk to you, but then I get to show you the piano." She bounded along in front across the room, and Cuddy, watching her, saw both Rachel and Abby a few years down the road. She looked over at House to share the thought, and she nearly laughed at his expression. He still looked a bit like a deer in headlights, on edge from the unexpected attendance here, but he also had locked in as if clutching a life preserver on one word of Cathy's: Piano. Only the thought of music brought that specific expression to his eyes.

House had been asked, at Cathy's request, to play the piano at Jensen's wedding. Jensen himself had told House he fully understood if he didn't want to, but Cathy had been mesmerized by House's playing at his own wedding last August. Not that this would be like that. No original composition, no central focus during the ceremony. House had agreed, to Cuddy's surprise and somewhat to Jensen's, but he had specified that it would be clearly different, that he would not try to repeat what had been a deeply personal moment for the two of them. Which was fine with all parties, as Jensen and Melissa and Cathy already had plenty of their own touches planned. House would be over unobtrusively at the side and would simply be playing for about 30 minutes as background music before the ceremony while people came in, then the processional, with everyone's attention on the bride, then the recessional afterward.

Jensen looked up as Cathy bounded into the middle of his conversation with his brother. "Dr. House! I'm glad to see you." He included Cuddy in his smile. "This is Dr. Gregory House and Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House. My brother, Mark Jensen."

"Nice to meet you," Mark replied, shaking hands with both of them. House hated hand-shaking, but he was under threat by Cuddy to be good for the next two days, so he endured in silence. "I've heard so much about you," Mark continued, and House's eyes flicked toward Jensen with a look of half surprise, half fear, before Mark completed his comment. "Michael's told me how you saved Cathy."

House relaxed a bit. Cathy's case. Of course Jensen had talked about that with his relatives. Jensen gave him a reassuring smile, confirming silently but absolutely clearly that conversations about House had been edited. "Excuse me a minute, Mark." He reached out minutely toward House's wrist, stopping far short of touching him, but the subtle gesture was there, and House followed him. Behind him, he heard Mark asking Cuddy about Rachel. The voices were much less similar than the looks, but clearly Jensen's smoothness in conversation was a shared trait.

Jensen reached a marginally less-populated portion of the room and turned to face House. "I apologize," he said, keeping his voice pitched low. "I didn't know this many people would be here."

"Aren't they your family? Or hers?" House looked around at the group.

"Hers, mostly, but I'd forgotten just how large Melissa's extended family is. Not only that, but most brought along a few friends. There are people here I don't even know myself. I'd told you we had a private wedding the first time." House nodded. Jensen had explained that he and Melissa were going the whole nine yards on their second wedding because their first had been just them and a justice of the peace. Melissa's parents had been convinced that they ought to give their daughter the all-American dream wedding, but with another wedding already previously that year, a few health crises, and a lost job, the money wasn't there. They would have spent it anyway, going into debt, and Melissa and Jensen had eloped to save the parents' budget. This time, though, with things more financially stable, her parents insisted on making up for the wedding that had been denied them the first time, and Melissa had decided it was harmless to indulge them, even if the size of the ceremony mattered more to her parents and family than to her. "Anyway," Jensen continued, "since we didn't have the whole thing at the first wedding, and there haven't been any more family weddings in between, I'd never seen the full crowd in one room, with extra friends and acquaintances attached. Not _everybody_ comes to things, usually. Obviously, a wedding is the exception. I should have known, knowing some of her relatives and how big a deal this was to her parents. I apologize."

House relaxed a fraction more. The crowd had startled him, but at least Jensen hadn't deliberately set him up for it and concealed that fact just to get his agreement on the music. Actually, the idea of the ever-efficient Jensen being caught off guard himself by the enthusiasm of extended relatives was a nice thought. The man was far too efficient at times, too good at his job. Part of House enjoyed the idea of an oversight and a suggestion of nervousness that he wasn't used to seeing. "I almost turned around in the hall and bolted," he admitted. "Rachel would have voted with me, but Lisa overruled us."

Jensen chuckled. "I wouldn't have blamed you, but I'm glad you didn't. I had a few seconds myself walking in where I thought about running off for another private one, but her parents would never forgive us for that trick twice. Melissa and Cathy being here matter more than how many people are watching. For tonight and tomorrow, I can deal with it, and I'll probably never get all of them together again. They aren't an oppressively present family; they just enjoy a good ceremony." He looked back over at Cuddy. "How's Abby doing?"

"She's great. She's just still a bit fragile for a trip like this into a large group of people." House looked around. "You should be glad she's with the nanny. If we'd had her, Lisa would have bolted away from the noise of the crowd herself and left me in her dust. She's still very protective."

"She has reason to be, after everything Abby's been through. As long as she does get some break from it all for her own sanity regularly."

"Every week," House confirmed. He turned at the sound of footsteps as Cathy bounded up again. The girl was irresistible, that almost ethereal combination of youth and wisdom in her expression. This time, he himself saw Rachel and Abby in a few years.

"Dr. House," she insisted, latching onto his arm, "I need to show you the piano."

Jensen smiled at her enthusiasm. "I told you I wanted to talk to him first, Cathy."

"Wasn't that what you just did?" she asked with the persistence of a child on a mission.

House smiled himself; he couldn't help it. Another twist of the knots inside him relaxed. "It's okay, Cathy. I'd love to see the piano." She grasped his left wrist and led him along, though carefully not doing it too quickly. Jensen watched the two of them leave the room, his thoughts full of his own future and gratitude that, thanks to the blue-eyed genius crossing the room with his daughter, Cathy would be part of it.

(H/C)

Later, after meeting the piano in the chapel on the floor above the reception hall, after so many repetitions of rehearsing the ceremony that House was starting to have nearly irresistible urges to switch from the requested soundtrack into something wildly inappropriate just to watch the reactions - those thoughts instantly quelled by Cuddy's eagle eye as she heard them - the group returned to the reception hall where dinner was now set out at one side. Everyone filled a plate and sat down at the long tables down the room. House had long since worn out his minute store of social chitchat, and Cuddy was still shooting him reminder glances against saying what he was really thinking, so he sat mostly quietly, feeding Rachel and listening to bits of conversation around him.

The concept of a family this large, even if friends were included, was completely alien to him. How did they even remember each other's names, much less the other details? The woman behind him, who was complaining nonstop about her bad knees, would be better off paying more attention to her lungs and stopping smoking. He could clearly hear the slight wheeze punctuating her words. The teenager several chairs down the table from him and the girl across from him were clearly having some recreational activity on the side and trying to keep their respective parents from knowing it. They put far too much effort into not looking at each other.

A hand from the other side of the table and a few people down reached across a few plates with a half-mumbled apology, going for another roll from the bread basket in the middle of the table.

House froze.

Cuddy was deep in conversation with Melissa about Abby, one of her favorite subjects, and she didn't see House flinch, but Rachel, in his lap, did. The girl reached up to pat his cheek questioningly, and House felt his heart start back up again. He smiled at her reassuringly, offered her another bite, and then unobtrusively looked down the table for the source of the hand.

The man was tall, but there the other resemblance physically to John ended. This man had obviously never seen the Marine Corps and had no military crispness. He had a middle-aged paunch and an slight air that he, too, was wishing he were anywhere else other than in this press of relatives. He felt House's gaze on him and looked back questioningly, and the eyes met for a moment before House looked away.

Rachel in his lap patted his cheek again, and House smiled at her and returned to his task of feeding his daughter.

(H/C)

About 20 minutes later, House was returning from a trip to the bathroom, but as he passed the stairs on his way back to the reception hall, he irresistibly diverted, heading up them. The chapel was dark now, blessed solitude, and without turning on the lights, he slid onto the piano bench and gave his mind and his hands free rein.

Even after a year, it was hard, unbelievably hard at times, to face and feel emotions or to let himself remember things instead of stuffing it all back deep down and recorking the bottle of his past. Jensen had worked extensively on this with him, and even House had to admit at this point that the psychiatrist was right. Afterward, he did feel better for letting himself feel, for going through the emotions instead of detouring around them, and the occasional nightmares were in fact triggered at least sometimes by reminders in his day and sometimes could be avoided if he would let himself remember while awake rather than forcing it into his dreams.

_To let himself remember. . . _

He remembered John's hand, reaching across the table toward him, reaching across a room toward him. Large, strong hands. Powerful hands with a slight flex as they came as if already feeling their captive beneath their grasp. Inevitable hands, leading to inevitable pain.

For just a moment, as that hand reached across the table to capture a roll, it had been John's. The resemblance physically was quite strong, the same bone structure, the same size, even the same slight eager flexing. Never before had House met someone else who reminded him so powerfully of John's hands. The reaction surprised him. Even with an amazing anatomical similarity on that feature, House would have thought he was past threatening to fall into a flashback, even if it had been averted, just by somebody reaching across the table. He was annoyed at himself. His daughter, of all people, had noticed. He had to get a better grip on himself before she got much older and would attach questions to her observations. No, if his daughters ever discovered his past, he wanted it to be because many, many years down the road, he had told them, not because they noticed themselves that something was wrong with their father.

So he sat here in the darkness, the music much more emotional now than his earlier selections. The notes ran through a storm of gathering thunder, flickers of lightning, then pounding rain and crashing sound effects, finally emerging into calm and the rainbow on the other side as he let himself think about John's hands, including the ultimate satisfaction that those hands were dead. It was over. He had survived.

"Dr. House?"

House jumped, his hands alone remaining steady, the notes falling flawlessly from his fingers.

"I'm sorry," Cathy said, and he forced himself not to flinch again. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was looking for you and heard the music up here." She smiled at him. "What music was that?"

He ran back mentally. "Part Rachmaninoff, part Wagner, part House."

"I liked it. It _felt_ things."

That was the point, he thought silently. "I didn't mean to run out on everybody. We'd probably better get back downstairs."

Cathy's shoulders twitched in disagreement. "There are so many of them down there. It's almost smothering."

He smiled. "Exactly. Fortunately, according to your father, this is probably the one time you get the full congregation at once. Until your own wedding, that is."

"Oh, I'm never going to get married," she stated with the firm conviction of 8. "Boys are gross."

He chuckled and didn't even realize that the music had shifted again until she sat down tentatively onto the bench next to him, pulled in by the current of the even, peaceful melody. "I wish I could play."

"Ask your parents for lessons. I'm sure they'd give them to you."

"Oh, I've been taking lessons for a year. But it's all exercises and simple things. It's stiff. I wish I could _play_. Like you do."

"If you keep at it, Cathy, it can get better."

She brightened up slightly. "So I will be able to play like you someday?"

The mood of the music shifted again, slightly melancholy. "I don't know, Cathy. Practice is only part of it." He felt the disappointment radiating off her. "Sorry, I ought to be telling you of course you can."

Her chin came up defiantly. "No, you shouldn't. You don't lie to me. Lots of people lie to kids, say what they think we want. And they think we don't notice."

He smiled slightly. "Here, Cathy. Slide over a bit and put your hands on top of mine." She did so, spreading out her much smaller hands to partially cover his. "Now relax your fingers. Don't try to do anything. Just feel it." He changed into a lyrical, fluid sonata, something not too challenging, as she was a bit of a technical obstacle to him, but something with enough music in it that hopefully she could feel the difference, could at least experience the Promised Land of music, even if fate would ultimately deny her the right to enter herself.

She was absolutely still, soaking it up through his hands, and when he finished, she broke away and gave him a spontaneous hug. "I could feel it there. Thank you."

"You're welcome." The piano was hushed now momentarily, and he looked down into her young-old face. "Cathy, who was the man sitting five places down from your mother at the table?" She frowned slightly in thought, her mind rewinding through the places at the table. "Tall," House prompted. "Slightly overweight. Big hands, and . . " He trailed off before he actually said it. _Cold_ eyes. The other feature besides his hands that reminded House of John.

"Was he wearing a green shirt?" she asked.

"That's him."

"I think he came with one of Mom's cousins? I'm not sure. I don't think he's a relative, but he might be dating somebody. Why?"

"I just wondered. I was noticing him at the table." She shrugged, obviously having seen people more worth noticing in her eyes. "We'd better get back downstairs before Cuddy realizes I'm gone. I promised her I'd be good for today and tomorrow."

She laughed, a golden sound that pushed back the shadows in the room. "Mom made me promise that, too."

"I'll bet you'd have to work at being bad, Cathy."

She stood up with enviable ease. "You don't know me. Besides, I'll bet you'd have to work at being bad yourself."

He pried himself somewhat stiffly up from the piano bench. "You _really_ don't know me. Ask anybody at the hospital. I'm a total jerk."

She laughed as if he had made a good joke. "No, you're not." She skipped happily out of the shadowed chapel ahead of him, the light spilling through the open door and outlining her hair in a halo effect. House smiled, again wondering what Rachel and Abby would look like at this age, admiring her pure innocence.

(H/C)

The crowd was starting to disperse, Rachel was falling asleep on House's shoulder, and Cuddy was starting to make "get to the hotel" noises. They had a room tonight to save the driving. Wilson would be coming up just for the wedding tomorrow morning. "Just a minute," House told Cuddy. "I want to say goodnight to Jensen." He took two steps toward the Jensen brothers, who were once again confusingly side by side and deep in conversation, and then he turned back and passed Rachel to Cuddy. "Take her for a minute, would you?"

Cuddy frowned. "Why . . ." He was already gone again. Why on earth would he want to say goodnight to Jensen without Rachel present?

House came up to the two brothers, who turned identical looks of inquiry on him as he broke into their conversational circle. "Could I talk to you just for a minute alone?" he asked of the one on the right.

Mark grinned in appreciation. "He's got us down, Michael. Lots of people can't when we're together. We've had several mix us up tonight."

House saw the flash of laughter in his eyes. "And you enjoyed confusing some of them and stringing them along for a minute, right?"

A bilateral caught-in-the-act expression crossed both faces, and Jensen laughed. "Never try to pretend anything with him, Mark. He'll see right through you."

"I can see that. Well, I'll go say goodnight to Melissa and Cathy. See you tomorrow, Michael."

"See you." The brothers shared a hug, and House watched. They were truly close, these two, in much more than just appearance.

Jensen turned back to face House as Mark left through the dispersing crowd. "What's up?"

On the verge of telling him, House suddenly felt foolish again. "I'm, um, not sure if there's actually something here or if my mind is just playing tricks on me."

"Start at the beginning," Jensen recommended. "Did something happen tonight?"

"You know the tall man, slightly overweight, green shirt, five down the table from Melissa?"

Jensen did his own memory exercise. "I think he was with one of Melissa's cousins. I'd never met him before. Probably won't again, either. Why did he get your attention?"

House was really feeling silly now. "It . . . nothing. Never mind." He started to turn away, and Jensen caught his wrist, one of the rare times the psychiatrist touched him without first asking permission.

"It wasn't nothing. And if a stranger caught your attention, it wasn't - at least not totally - because your mind was playing tricks on you. If you noticed him, you had a valid reason to. I trust your perception."

House relaxed slightly, though he still felt a bit like he might be making a mountain out of a molehill. "He reached across the table for a roll at one point, and his hand . . ." He shivered slightly. "He has my father's hands." He had looked away while saying it, but now he looked back quickly at Jensen to see if the psychiatrist was thinking the statement was absurd and that coincidences happened all the time. Not a hint of that was in Jensen's eyes. He looked intent and serious. House went on. "So I was looking at him then, and he looked back at me. Just then, when he was annoyed slightly and wondered what my problem was, his eyes were cold. Calculating. _Familiar._" House paused and then went on uncertainly. "Later on, he was perfectly pleasant, and he didn't look like that. It's probably pure coincidence, minor physical similarities nobody could help, but the trigger came out of the blue. I hadn't been thinking about Dad at all. And just in case my imagination isn't running away with me, I wanted to warn you to be careful around him with Cathy if he is part of your family. Just . . . watch out."

He had looked away again, and Jensen again touched his arm, squeezing it slightly. He looked up into the psychiatrist's intelligent eyes. "Thank you," Jensen said. "If we ever do encounter him again, I'll be aware."

House relaxed, reassured that he wasn't about to be ridiculed for unbased fears. "I don't _know_ anything. It could be nothing. It probably is nothing."

"I understand. And again, thank you."

House turned to look across the room to Cuddy, who was watching them intently. "I'd better get going. Good night, Jensen."

"Good night, Dr. House. Are you going to sleep tonight?"

House turned back to meet his eyes. "Yes. It's okay."

"Good. I'll see you in the morning. I'll come along and say goodnight to Dr. Cuddy." Together, they crossed the room.

(H/C)

"Do you want to tell me what you were talking about with Jensen?" Cuddy asked once they were back in the hotel room. Rachel was already sound asleep. Cuddy tried not to sound pushy, but she was curious.

House sighed. "Did you notice Green Shirt at the table? Five down from Melissa on the other side from us."

She considered it. "No. Why?"

With a sigh, he started again on this tale, and reassuringly, like Jensen, she did not laugh at him. "So that's where you went when you disappeared for a while?"

"Yes. I . . . needed to remember. I played the piano for a while."

"Did it help?"

"Yes. But Cathy came up to join me, and she got me thinking . . . this is probably nothing, but I'd never forgive myself if it eventually did turn out to be something, if she got hurt, and I hadn't said anything."

"So Jensen will keep an eye out?"

"Yes. He believed me."

She pulled him closer to her. "There's no reason not to believe you, Greg. You're more perceptive than the rest of us."

"That's almost exactly what Jensen said." House shook himself as if visibly shaking off the specters - both past and potentially future - from the rehearsal. "Anyway, that's over now. Jensen said he'd never seen the man before and most likely never would again."

"And I'm sure we'll never have any reason to see him again, either him or his hands."

"Right." He gave her a strategically located squeeze. "So do I get a reward for being good tonight?"

"I said you had to be good tonight and tomorrow," she reminded, but she was already melting into his touch. "But maybe we could think of some appropriate reward for halfway."

By the time House was sound asleep later and she was rapidly heading that way, she had to admit to herself that nothing at all with House could ever be called halfway.

END OF PART ONE


	2. Chapter 2

Hi readers: No chapter yet, but a quick update since several people have asked.

Medical Homicide is ROCKING. This story actually woke me up out of sleep last night, my mind chewing away busily on things while I was asleep. It's coming together very nicely. I am thoroughly enjoying working on it. It is an extremely complicated story, possibly the most entangled of the series, and a lot to work out, and a lot else is going on in life, too, but I think probably within a month at least, I'll be all set and posting regular updates on this one.

Lots to anticipate, and I don't want to give too much away, but just as one teaser tidbit (among many possible choices in the story), if you have ever thought therapy was going a little bit too smoothly and wanted to see House get mad at Jensen (and how Jensen handles things from there), stay tuned. I still think that Nolan has a lot to answer for in his therapeutic failures in Baggage and how he dealt with that session, both during it and at the end. Obviously, my muse does, too. Many other simultaneous major problems, of course, also on the horizon with patients, the team, the hospital, the families, and the past. And when I say major problems, I do mean major problems.

Hang in there; it's coming along just fine.

ItH


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own House nor write for it. Any characters you have seen on your TV are not mine. Characters you have not seen on TV (Jensen, etc.) are mine. This is purely for fanfic fun, not profit.

Pairing: Always and only Huddy.

A/N: Here we go! Please remain seated and keep your hands in the car at all times.

Couple of personal disclaimers. First, I'm not watching House anymore, so any background/character facts mentioned in the S7 shows, I don't have. Not that they've tried to be consistent with background, but it's possible new pieces of info might be mentioned which I unknowingly violate. Even without watching, I'm sure the premiere included lots of Huddy sex and absolutely no difficulties by House with leg pain, because it actually wasn't a pre-existing serious medical disability exacerbated by crawling for hours around a disaster site and being buried in the finale that had him barely able to walk at the end, but really was just all in his head and symbolic of wanting Cuddy. I'm sure once they're physically together, no leg pain required in the premiere. Unless they had a fight at some point, where it might have hurt just during that scene to illustrate the emotional stress House was feeling. I don't have to watch to know how they'd play that after S6, yet another changed premise from their own series facts and another slap in the face of anybody with legitimate chronic pain issues. Anyhow, character details they reveal here on out are probably not known by me unless I gleaned it from what little fanfic reading I have time for. Also, remember that the Pranks universe diverged from the show in the middle of the Greater Good. Kutner is still alive, has not killed himself, and won't. :)

Second, I'm not a doctor, nor am I a lawyer. Research has been done; sorry for any mistakes that slipped through anyway. This is only fanfiction, and I appropriately will allot it only a limited time on research, a legitimate effort, but not something equating to writing a thesis. I am just now starting research on a serious, "official" book, and that one, with document research, interviews with survivors/descendants, etc., I expect to take me well over a year simply in research before I ever start writing. Fanfiction does not justify that amount of attention to detail; it's purely for informal fun. The "real" writing is going well, for those of you who have asked. My mystery I'm mentally writing and my new project, which will be a nonfiction history, I'm just starting both have me excited. It does take a while, both writing, which I'm not out of yet, and then the publication chase. If/when they are published, I will let people know.

Third, real life is quite hectic and unstable at the moment. Updates may come within a few days of each other; may have gaps here and there. I do know there is a 2-week stretch coming up at the very beginning of October where I'm unlikely to get anything at all up. I'm doing my best with what I have to deal with, and patience is a virtue.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the ride!

(H/C)

_October _

"Happy birthday, dear Abby! Happy birthday to you!"

The chorus of voices finished the song, and House, playing the piano, ended it on a dramatic series of runs across the entire keyboard and an emphatic final chord that had Abby looking at him in wondering adoration rather than the cake with a large candle stating one. Cuddy was holding it in front of her, within easy sight but carefully just out of reach.

Rachel had been watching her father, too, but her more-experienced attention switched back to the dessert more quickly. "Cake!" she insisted, banging the tray of her high chair. "Cake now?"

Wilson laughed. "Got your priorities in order, don't you, Rachel?"

"Sing first, then cake," she recited, obviously a repetition of something she had heard several times today during the baking and party preparations. "Cake now!"

House grinned and slid off the piano bench. "Yes, munchkin, we'll have cake now." He limped over to the two high chairs set side by side and picked up Abby out of hers. "Happy birthday," he repeated, hugging her tightly, remembering the calamitous events of a year ago. He could still remember watching from the OR observation room as Cuddy, critically injured and unstable, threatened to bleed out and as the surgeons were forced to prematurely launch his daughter into the world.

"Greg?" Blythe's voice got through to him on the second repetition. "Are you okay?"

He blinked and snapped back to the present. "Fine. Just remembering."

Cuddy literally shuddered as her own crystal-clear image of the past returned, House crumpling to the floor in front of her in a seizure. "It's all over now," she said, reassuring herself as well as him.

"Cake now!" Rachel repeated, getting tired of the adults stalling.

Wilson chuckled and picked up Rachel. "Come on, Cuddy, get with it."

"Wait," House objected as Cuddy started to turn away to go cut the cake. "She's got to blow out the candle."

"Greg, she can't . . ."

"I'll help. Here, Abby, see the candle?" He carried her over to Cuddy. Abby stared at the flickering one and then started to reach out, and House caught her hand. "No, don't touch. Blow." He pursed his lips in demonstration, letting out a long hiss of air, and Abby laughed and reached up to his face now. "I'm not playing with you, kid. This is serious." He blew out another breath, and she reached up with both hands now, patting his cheeks, totally focused on her father and ignoring the flame. House sighed.

"Cake NOW!" Rachel insisted. She leaned over from Wilson's arms and blew out the candle with a huge huff, having seen a few family birthdays in the past year that she remembered. She was starting to get the drill. "Now!"

Cuddy grinned. "Patience, Rachel." She started for the kitchen to cut the cake.

Blythe reached out from where she was seated on the couch. "Come here, Rachel. It will be here in a minute. Then presents."

Rachel's attention was immediately diverted to the pile of wrapped gifts on the coffee table. "Presents," she agreed enthusiastically. "My presents."

"_Abby's _presents," House corrected.

"Abby's presents," she repeated, resigned. But then she perked back up. "Nice to share."

Wilson laughed and carried Rachel over to join Blythe on the couch, in front of the wrapped pile. "House, you and Cuddy are going to have your hands full in another few years with these two."

"Anything but boredom," House replied. He headed for the kitchen where Cuddy had disappeared, and Blythe looked after him curiously.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked softly.

Wilson shook his head. "Lots of memories from a year ago," he said softly. "They're trying to make this a happy day, but . . ."

"Happy day," Rachel repeated. "Cake _and_ presents."

Wilson chuckled. "You're right, kid. When we've got cake and presents, who needs more for a happy day?"

"I'm glad I could get up here to share it with them," Blythe said. "So nice to see my granddaughters. So nice to _have _granddaughters."

"Were you about to give up on House?" Wilson asked.

She shook her head. "Never. I knew that someday . . . I just hoped I'd still be around to see them." She abruptly remembered last October herself. "I never thought I'd be so grateful that _he _was still around to see them."

Wilson nodded. He had plenty of memories himself from a year ago, almost none of them positive. "I know. But it's all okay now."

Rachel tired of looking at the forbidden presents and abruptly realized her parents were still missing. "Mama, Dada, cake now!" she called. "Cake, then presents."

(H/C)

House entered the kitchen to find Cuddy standing with a cake cutter in her hand but with her eyes unfocused. "You okay, Lisa?" he asked.

She jumped as he startled her out of reverie. "I was just . . . remembering."

"I know." He came across to hug her with one arm, Abby warmly trapped in between them. "We could have lost her. I could have lost you. But we didn't."

"And we nearly did lose you." She shuddered again, remembering how frighteningly close it had been.

"But we didn't," he repeated. She leaned against him, reassured by the warm life in him, and they were silent for a minute. "This October is certified disaster-free," he stated firmly, shaking off the past. "As Jensen would say, we've survived last year, and it's behind us. Today is going to be happy." It was a reminder to himself as well as her. Past bad experiences were not necessarily an omen for future events. Abby's birthday was going to be a positive memory for her as she grew up, a positive memory for all of them

Cuddy smiled, relaxing somewhat against him. "I know. I am happy, Greg. Happier than I've ever been in my life."

"So am I," he replied. Their lips met.

"Mama, Dada, cake now!" came Rachel's demand. "Cake, then presents."

House chuckled as they broke apart. "You need to talk to your daughter about timing."

"Oh, so she's suddenly _my_ daughter?" Cuddy turned to start cutting the cake.

House studied the stack of saucers and then Abby in his arms. His abilities in carrying were limited, but even more than that, he didn't feel like letting go of his daughter right now to help out what little he could. "Wilson," he bellowed. "Get in here and help carry cake."

"Cake NOW!" came Rachel's endorsement from the living room.

Abby smiled. "Cake," she said carefully. She had said only a couple of words to date, Mama and Dada, although the pediatrician wasn't worried. Like most premies, he said, she would take a year or two to catch up. All the neurological tests that they could run to date were looking promising. Still, Cuddy stopped cutting cake and turned around to face House, her smile mirroring his. The lingering shadows of last year that had been flitting through the room were suddenly dissipated, and just then, neither of them could think of anything more required to make it a totally happy day.

(H/C)

Much later that night, after cake, after presents, when the girls were sound asleep in the nursery, Wilson had gone, and Blythe had retired to the guest room, Cuddy firmly closed their bedroom door and then turned to face House. He was sitting on the side of the bed watching her. She walked over to her side of the bed, carefully making sure the monitor was turned on. Only soft, peaceful sleep sounds were transmitted from the nursery. She started to undress, then took a moment to survey the long scar across her abdomen, touching it lightly. House's hands suddenly locked over hers from behind, tracing along it. "I hope you aren't going to start getting turned off by scars," he said. "If so, I'm in a lot more trouble than you are."

She smiled and turned in his arms, his hands now linked behind her back. "You have nothing to worry about, Greg," she assured him, her eyes tracing his body appreciatively. "I was just thinking."

"Enough thinking for both of us today," he protested. "Last year is over, we're all fine, and we have a gorgeous daughter who, on her first birthday, learned how to say cake and also presents. We need to celebrate."

She grinned. "You're right. Last year is over. This is a certified disaster-free October, like you said. Life is good."

"So why are we still wasting time talking instead of already celebrating?" he asked.

"Because one of us is still overdressed," she replied, and her hands reached for his shirt.

(H/C)

House was nearly whistling as they entered PPTH the next morning, and he forced himself to stop and put on a suitably stern look. Couldn't let the nurses see him actually being happy. He and Cuddy rarely touched each other at work, maintaining professionalism as she put it, and in spite of his years of suggestive banter, he agreed. Not that he didn't want to touch her, always wanted to, but the actual privilege of doing so was still so precious to him that he almost wanted to guard it from intruding eyes around. The joking banter for public ears, the playful front, was still there, but the reality itself was far too intimate for him to casually put it on display. Still, even when they hadn't been actually touching, he was aware without looking the instant that she diverted from his side, heading across the lobby toward her own office. He felt her growing distance, like feeling the tide rushing away from the shore, and he turned quickly in an attempt to call it back, just for a second. "Cuddy, don't forget that Mom is coming by for lunch with us before she leaves."

She turned back so quickly that he thought she must be feeling his distance as much as he felt hers. Ridiculous that at their ages, they still longed to be together every minute. "Right. Behave yourself until then."

He arched an eyebrow. "How long have you known me?"

She smiled, forcing an element of sternness around it. "Get to work, House." She turned a bit reluctantly to leave him, heading for the paperwork of the day.

He whistled a brief passage from Bach as he walked on toward the elevators, then forced himself to stop as the receptionist looked over at him. Damn it, he was caught red-handed being happy again. He had a reputation to uphold.

He reached the elevator, stabbed the button with his cane, and stood there fairly patiently for once waiting for the car to respond, his thoughts on a pleasant shuffle through memories of Abby yesterday, the cake, the presents, Rachel trying to give her sister lessons in unwrapping technique.

He hadn't even heard footsteps approaching, but a hand abruptly reached out from beside him, going forward with authority to impatiently stab the button as if commanding the elevator to hurry up. House spooked like a startled horse, nearly losing his balance, and turned slowly to meet the quizzical expression of the man next to him.

It was Green Shirt.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Once again, I am not a doctor. Also, the medicine is not the point of this story, and we will quickly move past it to other fields. Not to give too much away, but in the title, the second word foretells more of the major story line than the first. I also am not a CPS worker. All I can do is research.

Second disclaimer: I'm going to be out of pocket for the next 2 weeks. You are extremely unlikely to get another update before the middle of October. Remember, patience IS a virtue. :)

I do appreciate all the reviews. Enjoy this chapter. This story takes off pretty quickly, and it is wild all the way to the end.

(H/C)

House stared. The abrupt, startling contrast from his pleasant thoughts of a moment ago to that hand reaching out left him mentally off balance for a few seconds, as if Freddy Krueger had wandered into one of Rachel's Disney movies.

It was unquestionably Green Shirt, as House had come to think of him in the intervening six months on the rare occasions he had thought about it, although he wasn't wearing a green shirt today. Still, House recognized him instantly. Tall, slightly overweight, but with an attitude of dominance in the hands. He hadn't merely pushed the button for the elevator; he had _commanded_ the car to appear immediately, daring it to defy him. Here was no military discipline and precision. Here was plain brute force.

At Jensen's wedding, Green Shirt had barely noticed House, only a couple of seconds' glance across the table, quickly forgotten, and while House had been playing the piano at the rehearsal and ceremony, he had deliberately been off to the side and playing background music. At no point had he been the center of attention. Thus the recognition was one-sided, although Green Shirt couldn't help noticing him now. He looked at House with mostly an expression of "what is _your_ problem" with only a hint of wondering where he had seen this man before. "Sorry to have startled you," he said, his tone making it clear that House had reacted out of all proportion and that he himself really had nothing at all for which to apologize.

The voice, as House heard it for the first time, was nothing like John's, but the word sorry was uttered in a near-identical tone, making a deliberate mockery of itself, meaning the opposite. House straightened up, physically as well as mentally pushing back the memories of his father and an endless staircase of pain. "I was just thinking. I didn't hear you come up," he replied.

Green Shirt looked him up and down and noticed the cane. He clearly was trying to place a fleeting memory of House, but the cane gave him no help, as the only two times he might have specifically noticed House, House had been seated, first at the table, then at the piano bench. The cane brought another expression to his eyes, though, again one that House recognized. The mental label couldn't have been slapped on more clearly. _Weakness_. House had been assessed, categorized, and dismissed. He remembered all the times John had looked at his cane, every time visually and often verbally reminding him of how real men got handicapped. _You don't know how lucky you are,_ he had said. House shivered, and he saw another shift in the eyes again as they caught the movement. Firmly, as if denying the mental accusation of weakness and the subsequent one of fear, he stepped forward as the elevator opened.

"Patrick didn't mean to startle you," a voice said. To that point, House had been so focused on Green Shirt that he hadn't even seen the woman with him, although she had been hanging back a bit behind her companion. She was holding two Styrofoam coffee cups from the cafeteria. "We do apologize." This wasn't Melissa's cousin. This was a woman who was not quite beautiful, was too tired, and was too frayed by her last several hours. _Worried mother,_ he thought. The elevator door closed, pinning in the three of them alone in the car.

Patrick shook his head. "Don't call me that," he insisted. He reached forward, stabbing at 3, not asking which button House wanted. House hit 4.

"I'm sorry, Pat. But it's a grand old name. _Patrick_. It has dignity and strength to it. Just like Christopher." The worried frown deepened between her eyes, and House slotted Christopher in place as the son. She was visiting her sick son, Christopher, who was a patient here. That still didn't explain Patrick's presence - House automatically assigned him the full name in thought, just because he knew it annoyed the man. He had no air of concerned father. Maybe he had moved on from dating Melissa's cousin to dating this woman. House made a mental note to ask Jensen if Patrick had moved on from the periphery of that family circle.

The woman extended her hand, and House shook it. It was as polite, soft, and worried as the rest of her. "I'm Ann Bellinger, and this is my boyfriend, Patrick Chandler. My son Christopher was admitted last night."

"Dr. Gregory House," House replied. He saw the bilateral surprise.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Ann said, "I had thought you were a patient." She looked at the cane, then quickly looked away, not wanting to be caught committing the social sin of staring.

House felt the familiar old twinge. They automatically assigned him the role of patient, not doctor. People didn't want a crippled doctor. But those weren't the only two choices around a hospital; he could have been put down as a visitor, friend, or family, as he had immediately characterized her. Even without Patrick's disdain attached, it had never occurred to her that he might simply be here for someone else.

Ann switched frames of reference faster than most people did, accepting his new status. "Is it . . . a _good_ hospital."

"One of the best," House assured her. A few years ago, he would have mocked her concern, but it was too real to him now as a parent. "I'm sure your son is in good hands." I _hope_ your son is in good hands. PPTH was a fine hospital, but as anywhere, not all doctors were created equal. "Who is his doctor?"

"Dr. Andrews in pediatrics." Competent but utterly unimaginative. The only four-footed equid for Andrews was a horse; zebras and donkeys might have been myths.

"Chris is going to be fine," Patrick said impatiently. "Just making a federal case out of nothing. Probably just wanted attention."

"_Patrick," _Ann said reproachfully.

The elevator door dinged open at the third floor. "Nice to meet you," Ann said, socially conventional even while worried. House gave her a nod. Patrick was already out of the elevator. The door closed, leaving House alone again, and he slumped like a deflating balloon, trying to let the tension out, trying to push the memories back. It was all so familiar. _You're imagining things,_ he told himself. But why? Okay, the first time he had reacted to that hand at the rehearsal dinner, he had been on edge from the crowd. But this morning, he had been totally relaxed, on familiar, comfortable ground, and thinking only pleasant thoughts. Why should his mind _twice_ choose one man's hand to overreact to with no previous reminders to have already started his thoughts in that direction?

And what if it wasn't imagination?

The door dinged open at the 4th floor, and he limped off, deep in thought, his pleasant mood of five minutes ago shattered.

"Good morning," Kutner said brightly as House entered the conference room.

House headed for the coffee pot, not replying, and Kutner eyed him curiously. House still had rough edges, and Cuddy had not changed that and never would, but there were some differences over the last year. He was no longer chronically late, and he normally would these days respond to a greeting first thing in the morning, at least by grunt or nod, though not often by words. Today, he seemed preoccupied. "How was Abby's birthday?" Kutner asked, unable to resist probing a bit. "Did you have a good day off?"

House relaxed a bit, a quickly hidden smile hovering over his lips. "It was great. A good day." He finished pouring a cup of coffee and turned. "Have we got a case?"

Thirteen and Taub pushed a printout that had been between them forward. Foreman as usual had been sitting off to the side, putting himself slightly apart from the group both physically and morally. "We had just been looking through the ER log from last night," Thirteen stated.

"There's one case of abrupt paralysis," Taub offered. "Man was having sex with his wife and suddenly experienced total weakness and couldn't move. And they had _not_ yet completed sex," he added.

"There's also a 29-year-old with seizures and a rash," Kutner suggested.

House picked up the printout, glancing down it himself. He was looking at the column that gave a brief chief complaint, not the names, but the column of names was right next door, and his eyes jumped immediately sideways, his attention caught, as he ran down the list.

_Christopher Bellinger. Epistaxis, bruising, and fever._

Bruising. Combined with epistaxis, probably medically caused. But combined with Patrick, possibly physically caused. The two were not mutually exclusive; people with clotting disorders can also be abused. He couldn't ignore the possibility, even if a long shot, as he had not been able to ignore the remote possibility of harm to Cathy back at Jensen's wedding rehearsal. Wouldn't hurt to take a closer look at the case, at least.

"Christopher Bellinger," he stated firmly. "Kutner, Taub, Foreman. Go get his full file, copy of the complete ER report. Start complete analysis of symptoms, see what tests they've run. Thirteen, with me." Ann might find a woman easier to talk to than a man.

The team was staring at him. "Epistaxis?" Foreman said incredulously. "You're interested in a case of epistaxis in a kid?"

Thirteen had stood up but then hesitated. "If they do the records, what are we going to do? Do we search the house?" House almost never went on house searches himself, though probably more due to his leg than any scrupples.

"No," House replied, as if it were obvious. "You and I are going to see the patient and talk to the family."

He exited Diagnostics on a brisk limp, leaving the team frozen in shock behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Hi, readers! I'm back online. The last two weeks were as busy as I expected them to be with almost no free time at a computer. This break was a good thing, not a family crisis for once, and it actually contained a good bit of work on writing, just on the real stuff instead of Medical Homicide. But I once again have time for fairly regular computing, hopefully, so I'll get back to this story. Here's a short update for tonight - I've had 11 hours on the road today, so don't expect a long chapter. But I return to you all pumped up, and the muse is going full gallop.

Just a note to orient you within the Pranks universe. This story has a fairly significant Thirteen subplot, although the main focus will always be House. I get bored very quickly with the others as primaries, although I like them in the background, so we will never deviate far or long from our lovable jerk. However, to understand what's happening with Thirteen, you must remember that Pranks separated from House the series about a third of the way through the Greater Good, at the trip wire, and has followed its own track from there. Nothing involving personal lives of the team in that episode after the trip wire happened. So Foreman and Thirteen are still together. She has tried a few drug trials. He has even considered messing with those to get her the real stuff. BUT there was no instant brain tumor, clandestine radiation treatment by two docs with entirely different specialties besides radiation oncology, or instant and full (albeit still with Huntington's) recovery to baseline by the next episode. So that's where Thirteen stands at the moment as she starts to become more involved in Medical Homicide.

The next few chapters will be more medical, but minimally so. It is the psychological warfare, not the medical, that is the focus of this story. I was going to give another reminder that I'm not a doctor, but after typing the above (instant brain tumor, instant recovery, etc.), I've decided it isn't needed. With the bar set that low by the actual paid writers, if you are interested in absolute medical precision, you're following the wrong show.

All aboard car one, leaving the roller coaster loading dock and heading rapidly for the first hill. There are several subsequent hills. The first one is not the biggest.

Enjoy!

ItH

(H/C)

Christopher Bellinger looked about 4 years old, small and pale in the pediatric ward bed. Too pale. House hadn't seen his full chart yet, but if the kid was more than 4, he was undersized. His mother was standing at the far side of the room, talking to Dr. Andrews in low tones, and Patrick Chandler stood staring out the window, hands in his pockets, with the air of one who feels that his time is being wasted and isn't shy about broadcasting the fact.

House limped into the room first and turned toward the bed, not the mother. Thirteen stopped in the doorway and eyed him as if he were his whiteboard, wondering what it was that had caught his attention on this case.

Christopher's eyes were on Patrick, and House came up unnoticed on the other side of the bed. "Hey, Christopher," he said softly.

The boy turned, large eyes in a pale face meeting House's own. He didn't reply. Obviously scared, but any 4-year-old in the hospital would be. House glanced at the vitals, noting the fever. 100.6. The child no doubt had already been given a child-safe fever reducer, and he was also on an IV. A bruise extended out from the IV needle insertion site. "How are you feeling?" House asked, keeping his voice low. He wanted to talk to the child before he was noticed by the adults if at all possible.

Christopher still didn't answer, although the eyes tracked him steadily enough. There was intelligence there - the kid didn't appear to have any baseline mental deficits. "What hurts?" House asked. The boy blinked, half opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Does your head hurt?"

Slowly, Christopher nodded. "And my tummy," he stated, almost a whisper.

House reached out gently. "May I look at it? I'll try not to hurt you." He stopped short of actually touching him, waiting for permission, and Christopher studied House's still hands, long, graceful musician's hands. After a moment, he nodded. House pulled the sheet down and started palpating gently. No obvious abdominal findings jumped out at him at first exam, but he also took the opportunity to check under the sides of the gown, looking at the ribcage, then slipping one arm and then the other out of the sleeves, getting the most complete total skin exam he could. There was some bruising along the ribs on one side, superficial skin bruising, with the ribs beneath intact, and two clear hand marks stood out on the upper arms, left arm darker than right, where an adult might have grabbed him to either lift him or hold him still. Could have happened in a non malicious context (assuming a clotting disorder) or a less-innocent one. Large hands. House glanced over at Ann, who still hadn't noticed him. She had large hands for a woman, but she lacked Patrick's force. The bruises on the arms were fresher than the ones along the side of his ribcage.

Christopher had tensed up at first, then settled down, and by the end of the exam, he looked calmer than he had at any point since House had entered the room, as if instinctively trusting these hands. That made the switch even more marked as he suddenly tensed back up, his eyes jumping abruptly to the side, as Patrick's voice commanded the attention of everybody in the room.

"What do you think you're doing?"

House was looking at Christopher just then, of course, finishing the initial exam, and he saw for a second, quickly shielded, the raw fear in the child's eyes. At that moment, he was absolutely sure. Not based on the bruising, which could be equivocal, especially given a probable clotting disorder, but based on the child's reaction. For House, it was proof as valid as any case worker's report he had ever seen. He kept one hand on the boy, gently letting him feel the warmth and contact, as he turned. "I've been called in on consultation on this case."

"You . . . wait a minute. Who called a consultation, House?" Andrews stepped over.

"I did," House replied. "I get to review the ER logs, remember? I have an open-season hunting license in ER from the boss."

Andrews was looking baffled. "Why on earth would you want to consult on this one? It's clearly a combination of a clotting disorder and the flu. Kid hasn't been feeling well the last day, fell down, bloody nose, and they couldn't stop it. He's been bruising, too. We find and treat the clotting disorder, Children's Tylenol and fluids for the flu, send him home when he's better."

"We don't need you here," Patrick said with an edge on his voice.

"Odd," House replied. "Did I hear your last name wrong? I thought it was Chandler."

Patrick didn't like the defiance and stepped closer. "Ann agrees with me."

House looked over at her, head cocked inquiringly. She was standing at the side wringing her hands uncertainly. "Dr. Andrews was just telling me he thought Christopher would respond quickly to treatment. Do you disagree with him, Dr. House?"

Actually, House did. He could feel his other set of radar, the medically attuned side, going off. After not five minutes in the room, he was more and more convinced that Christopher was not only abused but really was sick, and not with the flu. But his main basis for each conclusion was pure intuition at this stage, something that Andrews would disbelieve and Patrick would ridicule. He needed facts and data, but he also needed permission to hunt them up. Okay, he didn't exactly need permission, but it would make things go faster.

But mothers were also said to have intuition. Of the three adults in the room, not counting Thirteen, he sensed that Ann was his most likely ally. "You know him," House said. "You've known him since he was born, known him as only a mother could. Forget what people are telling you. What does your instinct say?" Andrews was staring, Patrick was glaring, and Thirteen was baffled but trusting her boss's lead, but just at that moment, as House's eyes met Ann's, they might have been the only two people in the room. For several seconds their eyes locked, and then hers went to her son in the bed.

"Something is really wrong," she said, softly but definitely.

"Let me help find it and make it right," he asked.

Andrews was sputtering. "House, if this is one of your games . . ." Damn, the man was even harder to control at times now that he was married to the boss.

"No games," House said, and Thirteen studied him. He really thought this was a serious case. Why she had no idea, but she'd seen him be right too often to discount him.

"Yes," Ann said finally. "I want your help. Please, find out what's wrong with my boy." Andrews sighed and shook his head, knowing he'd lost medical custody of this one.

"He fell and bumped his nose, and he's got the flu," Patrick scoffed. "Back when I was a kid, we never got sent to the hospital for that. Kid just needs to toughen up." House flinched, and Patrick and Thirteen both looked at him, one calculating, the other curious.

"Patrick, he's _four_," Ann said reproachfully.

House snapped back to the present after a few seconds. "Okay, Thirteen, get a full history. Anything and everything. Repeat the full initial exam and workup and then go beyond that. I'm going up to my office for a few minutes, and then I'll be back." He turned to the boy. "I'll be back, Christopher. I promise. Okay?"

His hand had been on the boy's arm all this time, and Christopher reached over to trace the fingers. "Okay," he said softly.

As House moved away from the bed, Thirteen came around closer to it, and as she reached out to the boy, her hand abruptly quivered, her grasp faltering and missing the blanket. She stared at the hand accusingly for a moment, then dragged herself out of her own well of thought and smiled encouragingly at Christopher as she stepped forward.

(H/C)

House took the elevator back up to his office, his appearance the same as always to the hospital staff who passed him, but once inside, he pulled the blinds, then sat down at his desk, his breathing abruptly accelerating.

He had heard Patrick's words in John's voice. In fact, he could hear them now, echoing down the corridor of years.

_"You need to toughen up, boy. Always were a weakling. You're pathetic."_

"Shut up, you bastard!" he said sharply - and audibly - then looked over quickly to the conference room. It was empty, fortunately. He stood and pulled those blinds as well, then returned to his chair, trying to clear his thoughts for a minute.

Damn. The bruises and definitely the epistaxis were probably exacerbated by the clotting disorder, whichever one it was - had to get a thorough family history, too, as many of them were genetic - but he would bet a year's salary that they weren't _solely_ caused by it. But he would also bet a year's salary that there was another serious medical issue going on here in addition to that. The kid _felt_ wrong to him, and not just because of the fear. More information. He had to get more information to track down the zebra in the room.

For the first time, though, he wondered whether he was capable of investigating the abuse angle himself. He had actually slipped into a flashback there in the hospital room in front of five people, just from one remark. Was he going to be of any use medically to Christopher at all if he couldn't keep himself rooted in the present? But the abuse had to be dealt with. Had to be proven first, then had to be dealt with. Christopher's safety was more important than his own ghosts. He had to keep himself working on the medical case, and if he couldn't handle both of them, the medical case was the one he should focus on, because others were just as qualified to investigate abuse, while he was alone at the top of the diagnostics mountain.

As a medical professional, he was a mandated reporter. Any time he suspected abuse, he was required to report to CPS and let them investigate. It wasn't his job to have proof; suspicions alone legally required him to make a report. Investigation was what they were there for.

But why was he sitting here debating legalities? He had conducted his own investigations in the past. Why wasn't he capable of doing so this time? He had always been spectacular at multitasking. Shouldn't he be able to keep working both aspects, even if he did go through the officially required report to bring in CPS? Shouldn't a year and a half of therapy have made him _more_ capable of managing his memories on the job, not less?

_"Just a weakling. You can't take it. You never were strong enough. Not good for anything." _

House flinched at the voice in his head. "I said SHUT UP!" he shouted. In the hall outside the closed blinds, a set of passing footsteps audibly paused, then quickly resumed. House shook his head to clear it. He pulled out his cell phone, suddenly wanting advice from somebody, but then hesitated. There were only three options for that discussion. Cuddy was in a meeting. Jensen was no doubt in an appointment. Wilson, he remembered, was in an oncology department meeting.

And Christopher was in a hospital bed, and House suddenly felt that time really was crucial. There was a loose zebra afoot, and his sitting here shouting at his memories and debating who to ask for advice was accomplishing nothing on the zebra hunt. He should be _working_, not looking for someone to talk to. He was wasting time. Wasting Christopher's time. He could talk to people on his own time later. His shoulders slumped as his breath came out in a whoosh.

"I can't do this," he said to his desk. "I can't do both sides of this one efficiently. Why doesn't matter; I _can't_."

_"Weakling." _

House resisted the urge to reply and dialed quickly, almost defiantly.

"Child Protective Services hotline."

"This is Dr. Gregory House at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, reporting suspicions of physical abuse."

Five minutes later, he ended the call. Okay, the wheels were set in motion. CPS would investigate abuse, and he himself had a zebra to catch. He started to stand up and abruptly remembered that his mother was supposed to meet them in a little while for lunch before heading back to Lexington after her visit for Abby's birthday.

He couldn't do it. Their relationship was infinitely better than it once was, but he simply couldn't face lunch with her today, not with the ghost of John serving as the fourth person at the table. Besides, he didn't need to. He needed to be working on the medical case. He pulled out his cell phone again to send a quick text to her and to Cuddy - and nearly dropped it. His hands were shaking slightly. Annoyed at himself, he punched in the keys viciously. _"Can't make lunch. Tough case came up." _Hopefully that would put them both on hold. He'd talk to Blythe later, after her flight home, a nice social chat. He'd talk to Cuddy later, too, anything but a nice social chat.

But right now, he needed to be working. He _was_ going to be working today, not wasting time. For Christopher's sake, he refused to let himself get distracted. He pushed back the blinds and limped briskly out of the office, heading back to Pediatrics.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for violating HIPAA with Thirteen, but it's necessary plotwise. And the show violates HIPAA far more blatantly than this multiple times an episode.

(H/C)

House re-entered Christopher's room. Patrick Chandler had retreated to the window, pointedly detaching himself from the foolishness and time wasting going on, but he glared at House as he entered, and House forced himself not to flinch. Really, the only physical similarity was the hands and the eyes, but that was quite strong at times.

At the side of the room, Thirteen was talking to Ann. "Has anybody in your family ever suffered a clotting disorder?"

"Christopher is adopted," Ann said helplessly. "I don't know his family background."

Thirteen and House sighed simultaneously. "Has he had a normal, healthy childhood to date?" Thirteen continued.

"Yes. Maybe a little quiet, not as active as some, but he's always been a thinker. He's quite bright for his age." Ann looked over at her son, worry clear in her eyes. "He doesn't play as rambunctiously as a lot of his friends, but he loves to build things with his blocks. And he loves music. You know, he can already carry a tune singing and knows several songs? Just started on his own - I'd sing lullabies to him every night, and he'd chime right in. He's better at it than I am. I'm planning on voice lessons when he's a little older. He's quite talented; several people have said so."

"Sissy stuff," Patrick commented. "I gave him a football a month ago for his birthday, and he didn't even want to play catch."

_Focus_, House reminded himself sternly. He firmly but silently dismissed John - for the moment anyway - and went over to Christopher's bed.

"Four might be a bit young for football," Thirteen noted.

Patrick shook his head. "I was playing with a football when I was four."

Thirteen turned her attention back to the history. "Has he had all of his immunizations?"

"Yes," Ann replied.

House studied the boy in the bed, and John's voice faded into the background as his medical instincts kicked in. The fever was up to 101.8. "Thirteen, has he had an antipyretic?"

She flipped back through the chart and nearly dropped it as her hands faltered again. House looked around at the delay. She was frozen in thought. "Thirteen!"

She snapped out of her fixed stare at her hands and resumed the search through the file. "Um, Children's Tylenol and an antiemetic."

"No antibiotics?"

"No. Not indicated for flu, which is what Andrews has as the diagnosis."

"When was his last dose of Tylenol?"

"Hour and a half ago."

And the fever was rising, although the Tylenol should be in full force. "Start broad spectrum antibiotics. Was the white count elevated on initial CBC?"

"No."

"Run another one, see if it's rising. And cultures. Did they do bleeding times yet?"

"PT and PTT both normal."

"Repeat them, and order a manual bleeding time test, too." She nodded and passed the file to him as she left the room. She nearly collided with Foreman in the door.

"I'll take over here. Time for your appointment," Foreman said softly.

She shook her head. "I'm busy. Not going today." She replied just as softly, but House heard her clearly, as did Patrick. He felt the man's attention sharpen. Patrick either had excellent hearing or excellent radar for any weakness or both.

"You've already missed one this week. Miss too many, and you're out of the trial," Foreman protested.

"I'm going to quit the trial," she replied.

"What?"

"We'll talk about this later. I'm busy." She tried to push past him.

"You can't do that." Their whole conversation had been quite low, but they had the attention of everybody in the room now. "If you just quit, other Huntington's trials will be less likely to accept you."

"We'll talk about it _later_," Thirteen repeated firmly. She stalked past him out of the room, and he turned to follow.

"Foreman." House's voice stopped him in his tracks. "She's gone after antibiotics. Draw some blood for cultures, and you can run those to the lab yourself." Foreman looked from House to Thirteen's retreating back and then back to House. "Preferably today," House continued pointedly. With a sigh, Foreman stepped over to the child.

House was once again plunged into the medical case, discarding the interval conversation like yesterday's newspaper. He palpated the abdomen again, and Christopher flinched. Not localized tenderness, though, more general. "Has he been throwing up?" he asked. He'd gotten an antiemetic, after all.

"Last night and this morning," Ann confirmed. "They gave him something for it."

"Christopher, do you still feel sick?"

Christopher's eyes tracked back from his mother to House, and he nodded slightly. "What else hurts, Christopher? It's important, okay? You need to tell me."

"My head," the boy said softly. House pulled Foreman's penlight out of his lab coat pocket as the neurologist bent over to get the blood sample from the IV line. He flashed the light in the boy's eyes, and Christopher flinched. Pupils were equal and reactive, though.

"Does the light hurt?"

"A little bit. And . . ." Christopher glanced at Patrick.

He'd definitely been threatened against revealing physical problems, House concluded.

_"If you tell anybody, anybody at all, your mother dies, boy. I'll kill her and make you watch. And just remember, it will be your fault." _

House shook his head, mentally throwing John out the window of the hospital room. "It's okay, Christopher. You need to tell us what hurts, all right? It will help find out what's making you sick."

The boy looked at his mother then, and she came up on the other side of the bed as Foreman moved away with the blood sample, heading for the lab. "What hurts, Christopher?" she asked.

"My legs," he said softly.

House pulled the sheet down and inspected. Nothing, absolutely nothing. Not even bruises. No swelling. He ran his hands over them, probing. "Does one hurt more than the other, Christopher?"

"No. They just hurt."

Quite articulate, really, for a boy of four. House was building a mental whiteboard list. Fever, nausea, myalgia, abdominal pain. Which nine doctors out of ten would have put down as the flu, just as Andrews had. Nine doctors out of ten would have been wrong, too. House was now positive that there was something else here, something far more serious. "So you like to sing, Christopher?"

"Uh huh." The boy shifted slightly.

"Could you sing something for me?"

"What on earth is that a medical test of?" Patrick protested, but Christopher was already shaking his head.

"Why not?" House asked.

"Cause my throat hurts."

House had noticed him flinching slightly on swallowing earlier. He pulled out a tongue depressor from the drawer. "Open wide, Christopher." He studied the boy's throat. Slightly red, but not majorly so. Didn't look like either Strep or tonsillitis. Still, he'd get a throat culture, too, just in case. That fever going up on Tylenol worried him. "It's almost lunch time. Are you hungry?"

The boy shook his head.

"He's been throwing up," Patrick pointed out. "He's got the flu. Of course he's not hungry."

"Has his appetite been off before the vomiting started?" House asked Ann.

"Maybe for a day or so." Her worried frown was growing between her eyes.

"Gregory!"

House fought back a groan as he turned to face Blythe in the door. "Mom, what are you doing here?"

"I ran into Dr. Foreman in the elevator, and he told me which room you were in."

Foreman's revenge for House intervening with Thirteen, no doubt. House mentally assigned Foreman with 20 hours of charting. "I can't make lunch today, Mom. Didn't you get my message? I'm working."

"Oh, yes, I got your message, but I was hoping maybe you'd solved it."

"No, I'm just getting started."

"You need to eat something, Greg," Blythe said reproachfully.

"Tell you what. Go get me a Reuben in the cafeteria and put it on my desk up in my office, okay? I'll eat it when I have a chance. I like them cold anyway."

"All right." She hovered uncertainly in the door of the room. "Well, I can see you're working. Good bye, Gregory, and I enjoyed Abby's birthday so much."

With a sigh, he pulled away from Christopher's bedside long enough to go give Blythe a hug. "Bye, Mom. I'll call you later after your flight has landed if I get a chance. Okay?"

"Okay." She gave him a final squeeze, then turned away and nearly ran into the lunch cart as it entered the room.

"Look, Christopher," Ann said. "It's Jell-O. Don't you want to try just a few bites?" He shook his head vigorously.

"Well, I'm hungry. Whole world doesn't stop just because he's got the flu." Patrick started for the door. "Do you want something from the cafeteria, Ann?"

"Maybe a turkey sandwich, if they have them. Thank you."

"I'll be back." Patrick departed the room, and Ann turned to face House.

"Patrick can seem a bit rough at times, but he's really a sweet man inside. He just doesn't know how to show people he cares sometimes."

"I know the type," House replied ambiguously. "Back to Christopher, has he been playing anywhere new recently? New friends? Anything different in the environment?"

Outside the room, Patrick's stride had lengthened rapidly as soon as he was past sight line of the bed. His long legs easily caught up with Blythe's quad cane by the time she had reached the elevator. "Good morning," he said. "So you're Dr. House's mother?"

Blythe smiled at him. "Yes, I am. You're his patient's father, right?"

Mother's boyfriend, actually, but Patrick let technicalities slide. "That's right. Is he a good doctor?"

"Oh, he's the best. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about." They were in friendly conversation as the elevator door slid shut.

(H/C)

Cuddy had had a mundanely busy day. No great crises, but more than usual phone calls to return, meetings to attend, and paperwork to process. She was glad to get House's text about lunch; she had been near Blythe overload after a couple of days anyway. She hadn't been looking forward to lunch, although she wouldn't have left poor Greg stuck with her alone. But the day really had turned busier than anticipated, and it would have been a stretch to get away. She was grateful for his case. She worked straight through lunch herself, sending her secretary for a sandwich from the cafeteria and eating it at her desk.

Another several letters to answer, another boring meeting with a donor where she couldn't let herself appear bored. She was just returning to her office in late afternoon when she came to attention sharply. She hadn't specifically been listening to the pages overhead, the routine daily voice of the hospital, but the administrator in her could never quite tune them out, either.

"Dr. Brown to Pediatrics stat! Dr. Brown to Pediatrics stat!"

That was the code calling Security. Security to Pediatrics? She started across her office to pick up the phone and demand details of the unnamed crisis, but her cell phone rang before she was halfway there.

"Dr. Cuddy-House," she answered tersely, her mind anxious to investigate the page.

"Dr. Cuddy, this is Nurse Atkinson on Peds. You need to get up here. We've got a fight between a patient's family and Dr. House."

Cuddy felt anxiety and exasperation stab her equally, one dagger from each side. "Thank you. I'll be right there."

As she turned away to head for the stairs at a brisk administrative stride, she was both worried that House was all right and already planning a lecture tonight once they got home. Really, one of these days, he _had_ to find a better method of obtaining physical evidence on family members than provoking a fight.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: In Cuddy's defense, House has several times on the show provoked a family member into a confrontation for diagnostic purposes.

Enjoy! Next update probably the weekend.

(H/C)

When Cuddy bolted out of the stairwell onto the third floor, she could hear the confrontation long before she turned the corner into the right hall.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" The male voice was loud, domineering, but the female echo to it was just as annoyed.

"How DARE you question my love and devotion to my son."

Cuddy rounded the final turn and came abruptly upon the tableau. A tall, slightly overweight man was being restrained by Security, just in the process of taking over from Kutner and Foreman, but the venom in his eyes was enough to make her flinch . A woman stood near him, looking nearly as angry herself. House stood against the wall, half leaning on it, a bruise already darkening around one eye and a cut on the cheekbone below it with a trickle of blood running down.

Another woman stepped into the discussion just then. Cuddy hadn't noticed her in her first worried assessment of House and his presumed assailant, but now that she looked more closely, she recognized her. One of the CPS workers. "I told you, Mrs. Bellinger, Mr. Chandler, sources of reports of suspicions of abuse are confidential during an investigation. Any guesses you make to the identity of the reporter are simply guesses."

"I don't need to guess," Patrick spat out. "That bastard did it. I know he did it."

Cuddy stepped into the middle of the scene. "What's going on?"

It was Ann who replied. "Dr. House reported us to CPS - he actually thinks _I've_ been abusing my son."

The CPS worker spoke up again. "The complaint did not mention you, Mrs. Bellinger. But there were concerning injuries on the boy."

"Who has a clotting disorder!" Ann stated.

Patrick shook his head. "Sticking your nose into everybody else's business and imagining things. Like I told Ann, you should be doing your job!"

"I have been doing nothing but my job all day today," House replied evenly.

The CPS worker tried once again to regain control of this situation. "Somebody reported suspicions of abuse - I will not reveal who - and we are legally required now to investigate. That investigation will include medical evidence. If these suspicions are unfounded, you have nothing to worry about, but medical professionals are mandated reporters. Any employee of this hospital from the ER on who even thought abuse was a possibility was required to call us in. The fastest way to close this investigation is to cooperate with us during it."

Ann was still glaring at House. "I want another doctor on Christopher's case," she demanded.

House came straight up, showing more of a reaction there than at any time in the conversation so far. "Your son is seriously ill, Mrs. Bellinger. He is not responding to antibiotics so far, his fever is rising in spite of everything we do, and he's starting to get confused and delirious. Remember that Andrews called this the flu. Do you really want him handling this case again?"

Ann hesitated, looking into the room through the closed glass door, looking toward her son.

"We don't need him," Patrick insisted to her. "Damn interfering bastard. He wasn't really working on the case anyway."

"Christopher is getting delirious?" the CPS worker asked.

"Yes," House confirmed, "and we're all standing around out here wasting his time. I need to be running more tests, and so does the team."

"I was going to try to talk to him as part of the investigation," the worker said. "Do you think he'd give accurate information?"

House sighed. "I doubt it at this point. Two hours ago, maybe." If she could get him to talk at all.

She shook her head slightly. "That makes investigation more difficult, but we'll start with the medical records."

"We want another doctor," Patrick stated again. Ann started to open her mouth, and he cut her off. "Do you really want this lying, nosy bastard treating him? It's obvious he doesn't believe you even love your own son."

Cuddy stepped forward, taking control. "Mrs. Bellinger, Mr. Chandler, if you two would wait in the waiting room, it will make things progress more quickly, and you'd be back with your son sooner. The worker needs to at least try to talk to him." Her glance at Security was clear; they were to enforce the time-out in the waiting room. "I will come discuss this situation with you myself in a few minutes. Nurse Atkinson, please stay with the worker as a witness during her examination. Dr. Kutner, Dr. Foreman, please continue running tests for the moment, but don't attempt to see Christopher medically again until you have specific authorization to do so. House, I need to see you in your office."

With grumblings all around, the knot of people slowly dispersed. House limped toward the elevator - limping more than usual. Cuddy came up beside him.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm not the one with a fever that's near 103 now even on Tylenol and antibiotics," House protested. He stabbed the button inside the car, and the door closed on them. "The kid is really sick, Lisa. We're only wasting time stopping medical work on the case. _Both _investigations ought to be continuing."

"Did you call CPS?"

"Yes." He didn't offer anything more, and she studied the tension lines along his jaw and sighed. The elevator door opened onto the fourth floor, and they headed for House's office.

Once inside, Cuddy pointed to his desk. "Sit down." He dropped into the desk chair as she went into the conference room and retrieved the small first aid kit there. She returned a moment later and placed the kit on the desk, then studied the Reuben sitting there as well. "Is that your lunch?"

"Or some meal," House replied vaguely.

She glanced at her watch. It was 4:30. "Doubt you noticed, but it's a little past lunch time. Okay, Greg, start from the beginning. What's going on here?" She tilted his head back, studying the cut on his cheek.

"Remember Green Shirt?"

"Green Shirt?" It took a minute to connect. "You mean the man at Jensen's wedding who gave you the creeps?"

"The same. That was him. Patrick Chandler. I bumped into him and his current girlfriend in the elevator this morning. Her son was admitted last night - epistaxis, bruising, and fever. Chandler still . . . bothered me this morning, and when I saw bruising on the ER report, I thought I'd check it out, for the kid's sake." His eyes flashed in challenge. "Don't tell me I'm imagining things."

"I won't. You know the medical facts of clotting disorders and bruising better than I do. If you still called CPS, you had good reason." She removed an alcohol pad from the kit and started cleaning the cut. His blue eyes looked stunned momentarily, shaken by her trust in his judgment. "Go on, Greg. What happened when you saw him?"

His focus softened, eyes going distant. "The bruising could have been accidental, although somebody was holding him pretty firmly. But he was afraid. I . . . recognized it. He's also very reluctant to admit to anything physically, even when his mother encouraged him. He's been threatened not to complain about any injuries."

_"I'll kill her, and it will be your fault."_

House flinched sharply.

"Does it sting that much?" Cuddy asked, lightening pressure on the alcohol pad. In the next second, though, she recognized the look in his eyes. "No, that wasn't physical, was it? What's going on, Greg?"

He looked away, never able to make eye contact with her while revealing the most personal details. "I've been hearing Dad's voice a few times this morning. Just memory, I mean, not a hallucination. But Chandler - the way he acts, the phrases he uses. It's all so familiar. But it's been a long time since Dad sounded like he was right over my shoulder like he is today. So I decided I couldn't handle working the abuse investigation. I passed the buck on to CPS, and I've been totally focusing on the medical side."

The silence lengthened, and he looked back at her, seeing concern mixed with a bit of irritation in her eyes. No pity, but she looked at least partially pissed. "And all this is what you meant by a text to me saying you'd gotten busy on a case and couldn't make lunch?"

"I would have talked to you later. I _wanted_ to talk to you. But you were busy right then, and the boy really has something going on. I decided I could talk things out on my own time."

"Greg." He looked away again. "I'm not disappointed, just annoyed. If you ever truly need to talk to me, I don't care who I'm in a meeting with. You could have called."

"Still wasting Christopher's time, just like we're doing now." He pushed himself back from the desk to his feet and started limp-pacing the office. "_Damn _Chandler. Did you hear how he was manipulating her, turning her against me? If this kid goes back to Andrews, I don't think he has a chance, Lisa. Andrews never looks beyond page one of the book until it's too late."

She studied his stride. "He didn't hit you in the leg, did he?"

"Knocked me into a wall. It's not that bad. But didn't you hear what I'm saying? Christopher is the issue here, not me."

"I'll go talk to them in a minute, Greg, and try to get them to leave you on the case, but I do need to know exactly what happened. Give me some ammunition to go to bat for you."

He hit the end of his office and turned. "I've been working the medical side totally since this morning, like I said. The kid is getting worse. CPS happened to show up when Patrick and his girlfriend were down at the cafeteria taking a coffee break, and they walked right back into it. When told there were suspicions of abuse, Chandler was pissed, and he was also immediately trying to turn her against me, just like you heard. For the record, I'm not accusing her of anything but oblivion, but he's a first-class manipulator. They got into a shouting match, and he hit me."

"How did he know you'd made the call?"

His shoulders slumped, and he stopped for a minute in his pace circle. "Probably safe to say that I told him. Not directly, but let's assume that intuition on abuse works both ways. I've seen him watching me pretty closely this morning. If he set my radar off, I've probably set his off just as strongly." He resumed pacing. "Of course he'd know it was me. He doesn't need written proof, any more than I need written proof to be damn positive that kid is being abused."

"Hopefully CPS will turn up something on the investigation, even if Christopher can't talk to them. How old is he?"

"Four," House said flatly. He stopped in his pace circle again, staring at the wall. "I was about three when it started. This is early, I'm pretty sure. His mother can't have been with that bastard too long. There may not be that many injuries evident at this stage, but I saw the fear. He's trying to make sense of it, afraid to say anything, afraid to set him off, but still thinking there must be some explanation. I stopped looking for an explanation by four or five."

_"You want to know why, Greg? I'll tell you why. Because you're not worth caring about. Nobody ever will; they'll just pretend. You're just a weakling who will never amount to anything."_

He shivered again, and Cuddy crossed the room to grasp his arm. "Greg, are you sure you should be working this case, even medically?"

He looked up quickly, defiance flaring up in his eyes even as the shields clamped down. "I'm _fine_. I gave up the part I couldn't handle." The muscles along his jaw were still clamped tight. He was as locked up as she had ever seen him.

"I just meant, there are other doctors."

"Not as good." He pulled away from her and started pacing again. "There is seriously something wrong here. Medically, I mean. Nobody else in this hospital has a better chance than I do to find the answer, and if it goes back to a by-the-book moron, I really think the kid will die."

Cuddy studied his limping circuit for a moment, then sighed. "I'll go talk to his mother and try to convince them to let you stay on the case. But I want you to do something while I'm gone."

He stopped again, looking at her. "What?" He sounded half curious, half annoyed.

"Sit down, eat that sandwich, and take your meds. You're overdue for them."

The leg pain gnawed its way into the front of his consciousness for the first time in the last few hours. "Okay," he agreed. "But I've got to stay on this case."

"I'll do my best, Greg. Sit. Eat." He dropped into the desk chair again and picked up the Reuben.

Once outside, Cuddy allowed her worry to take the forefront for a few minutes as she returned to the third floor. What a mess. And she was positive that psychologically, he wasn't dealing with this as well or compartmentalizing as thoroughly as he claimed to be. But if the kid really was in danger, he had a point. Nobody else was better qualified medically. She also knew that as stressful as being on this case was for him, taking him off at this point with the case unsolved might be even worse. All she could do was hope for a quick and successful diagnosis - after her sales talk to the family, proclaiming the resume of her best doctor.

Kutner was waiting to get on the elevator as she got off, and she turned back and held the door for a moment. "Dr. Kutner, how hard did he hit Dr. House into the wall?"

"Not too bad, actually. House was dodging before Chandler even struck. It was odd, like he knew exactly what was coming. House stumbled into the wall, but if you're talking about his leg, that's been hurting him more all afternoon, even before the fight."

Like he knew what was coming. Oh, boy, Jensen would have his work cut out for him after this case, as she would herself. "Thank you, Dr. Kutner." She released the door and headed on toward the waiting room.

House was sitting in his desk chair munching mechanically when she got back. The Reuben was mostly gone, but she doubted he could even taste it. He had brought the whiteboard in from the conference room, and he was staring fixedly at it.

Fever (circled in red with up arrows on each side).

Confusion.

Nausea.

Vomiting.

Abdominal pain.

Myalgia.

Clotting disorder - normal PT and PTT - tests.

"Greg."

He jumped, looking up at her. He hadn't seen her come in. "Well?"

"You've still got the case. It took a bit a work, but Ann's primarily concerned about her son. They are both still annoyed at you; try to keep out of their way apart from the case. I see what you mean about Chandler, though. He's a manipulative bastard."

He lurched to his feet. "Got to get back to Christopher."

She put her hand on his arm, delaying his limp-march out of the office momentarily. "One more thing, Greg."

"What?" His mind was already out the door and halfway to the elevator.

"Once this case is over, you are going to talk to Jensen about this one. Thoroughly. And to me, too. Understood?"

He nodded quickly. "Thanks for sticking up for me."

"You're welcome. I only used the facts. You are the best doctor on staff. I know you aren't coming home for dinner, but I'll call you later tonight to see how it's going. Okay?"

"Okay. Tell the girls good night for me."

He was off, his limp a little less pronounced than it had been earlier. Once he was gone, Cuddy sat down at the desk herself, staring at his plate, worry written like a book across her face. She had a feeling this would be a very long night.


	8. Chapter 8

The quotation is from Macbeth by William Shakespeare. One of his best plays. I don't agree with the philosophy of this particular quote, but that philosophy is entirely true to the character who speaks it in the play, and I love the artistry of the language. IMHO, nobody ever, anywhere, anytime, wrote better than Shakespeare.

8:30 p.m.

Taub sat in the car with an expression of stoic martyrdom. Not only was he working late, not only was he waiting here to break the law once again for his employer, not only was House acting like a bear with a sore paw on this case, but he had been assigned Kutner as a partner in crime. Committing crimes and doing differentials with Kutner could be amusing at times in short doses. Sitting in the car with him for an hour thus far while doing nothing but waiting was enough to qualify any companion for sainthood.

Kutner was currently expounding on the same theme of the last hour. He was more pleasant but just as stubborn as House when he spotted a puzzle. "There is something weird going on here," the younger doctor repeated for the umpteenth time that night.

"I know, I heard you. Several times," Taub replied.

"Aren't you curious?"

"Why should I be?" Kutner stared at him, mouth agape. Taub continued. "If House has some personal thing bugging him, life will be easier for all of us if we solve the case ASAP and melt quietly into the background. Cuddy can deal with him. I'm paid to deal with him from 8:00 to 5:00" - Kutner pointedly looked at his watch - "and occasionally longer, but purely professionally. I don't know and don't want to know what's wrong in his personal life."

Kutner regained the power of speech. "How can you just not care?"

"Easy. Try it sometime," Taub recommended.

Kutner gave up on direct questioning and returned to his own House differential, hoping to entice his companion's interest. "It's not the case. Not just the case anyway, although he's taking this one personally. But House was upset this morning when he came in before he even picked out a case. So we know he was absent yesterday, he and Cuddy both, having Abby's birthday party Tuesday. He was fine Monday night when he left. What could possibly be bad about your kid's first birthday?"

"Maybe," Taub finally pointed out in the tone of one stating the obvious merely to change the subject, "he's remembering what happened a year ago."

Kutner blinked, the mental "happy birthday" balloons dancing above cake in his mind's eye abruptly popped. "You might be right. So he got all tied up in the memories. Yeah, that makes sense. And then the kid from today turned out to be a possible abuse case, and House was still all churned up thinking about his own kids and his family getting hurt, so he's projecting the protectiveness over to Christopher. That fits. I'll bet something is going on with the kid, too. That boyfriend bugs me; he has eyes like a snake. Do you think House really was the one who called CPS?"

Taub sighed. "Don't know, don't care."

"How can you not care?"

A cell phone broke their conversation just then. Saved by the ringtone, Taub thought - for the moment, at least. Kutner pulled it out. "House, we're still waiting down the block. We can't break in until CPS leaves, but they look like they're wrapping it up. A few trips out to the car in the last few minutes. We'll give you a call if we find anything." He hung up. "He's definitely on edge about this one. Poor House."

Taub shook his head. He could think of lots of adjectives to describe House, and his boss had become easier to deal with since his marriage, but still, poor House wasn't high on his list of potential descriptions.

(H/C)

9:00 p.m.

Wilson entered House's office. House was stretched out in the Eames chair with his leg up, eyes locked on the white board which he had brought in. Wilson glanced at it.

Fever (circled in red and framed with double arrows up. The word antibiotics was written alongside and then crossed out with the classic "no" circle with slash through it. Viral was added in green next to it.)

Confusion, unconsciousness.

Nausea.

Vomiting.

Abdominal pain.

Myalgia.

Clotting disorder - normal PT and PTT - normal platelet morph - prolonged bleeding time - GLANZMANN'S throm.

"Looks like you're making progress," Wilson said. House didn't even blink. "House?" The oncologist waved a hand between House and the whiteboard, breaking the line of vision, and House jumped as if Wilson had just been conjured up by a magician's trick from nothing. "He has Glanzmann's thrombastenia?"

House nodded. "Explains epistaxis, bruising, normal PT and other tests except for the bleeding time test. Started him on ristocetin for that. Doesn't explain fever and the not-just-flu. Got to be viral. We're three doses in on antibiotics, no response."

"Or not sensitive to the antibiotics you're using. Or not enough time yet to judge."

House shook his head. "Viral."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because if the couple of widely effective antibiotics we're using just aren't the right ones, we'll never find the right specialized one by trial and error until cultures come in, and the kid will be dead by then. Besides, I already added vanco. Nothing. His white count isn't elevated. If it's viral, we have a chance of finding it in time."

"What's his fever?"

"104. That's on antipyretics and antibiotics. We added a cooling blanket." Thankfully Christopher, only semiconscious now, hadn't reacted to the cooling blanket beyond a few routine shivers. Apparently, Patrick either hadn't discovered the effectiveness of ice baths or hadn't gotten down to using them.

Wilson was prattling on, he realized. "Isn't 4 a bit late for presentation of Glanzmann's?"

"Can be undiagnosed until revealed by trauma. In a quiet, bookish, musical kid, he's less likely than most to have run into it early. Until his mother's boyfriend entered the picture, that is. The bruises date from the last week or so up to quite recent. He fell last night - whether with help or not. That started the epistaxis and set off the whole chain of dominoes."

_"Got to teach you a lesson, boy. Music is for sissies. You need someone to toughen you up and make you a man." _

House shuddered.

"House?"

House snapped back into focus. "I just did an LP. Thirteen is running the tests on it." He had had to get off his leg for the moment. Standing with the precise balance required to do the test had annoyed it. Otherwise, he would have run the results on the CSF himself. Patrick's glare hadn't helped. Patrick had been quite reserved the rest of the evening - the presence of a security officer outside the room, provided by Cuddy, had no doubt assisted that - but he watched House incessantly any time he was in the room, watched him as a snake watches a mouse, and try as he might to go on about his medical job, House was on edge from it every minute he was in that room. Ann wasn't much better. She lacked Patrick's venom, but the looks of wounded accusation directed toward House, all of her former pleasantness gone, were nearly as hard to take. He had tried to keep Thirteen with him this evening; Ann definitely was better with the other woman than she was with House at this point. CPS hadn't been able to get any verbal information from Christopher, but they had documented the injuries and copied some of his medical records. House hoped their house search had been more fruitful.

"Where's Foreman?"

"Allegedly running tests, too. And Cheerful and Stumpy are breaking and entering." He nailed Wilson's eyes as he completed the roll call. "And I'm sitting here, resting my leg, differentializing and doing absolutely fine, so you can report back to Cuddy that you checked on me and then return to your much more fun plans for the evening."

"She's not home tonight, House."

"Really? Trouble in paradise?"

"No, she had a dinner with some old friends from college. I would have been an extra wheel." Wilson had been dating one of the ICU nurses for almost 9 months now, his longest relationship since Amber.

"If you think that leaves you free to hang around here all night oozing concern and misplaced helpfulness, think again. I'm busy. And _fine_, like I said. Sayonara."

Wilson sighed. "Cuddy's worried about you."

"I'd figured that one out myself, thanks. No reason. It's just a case."

"Right. Just any old case involving an abused child whom you obviously identify strongly with."

"I gave up the abuse angle. I'm just on the medical case."

"So the other hasn't crossed your mind all evening." Wilson sounded skeptical.

House grabbed his cane and lurched out of his Eames chair, starting to pace the office. "My mind all evening has been trying to track down the culprit for this fever before the kid makes it from medium rare to well done."

"You need to talk about this," Wilson pushed on.

House spun on him so fast he nearly lost his balance as the leg protested. "NO, Dr. Freud. I don't need to talk about this, not right now. I need to think. Christopher is running out of time. I can take a number. What I need to do now is my _job._"

"You're calling him by name. You never call your patients by name."

"Wilson, either contribute to the differential - the _medical_ differential, the one on the _patient_ - or get lost. No, on second thought, don't contribute to the differential. Just get lost. I'm _fine._" He immediately resumed his pacing, three limping circuits at his top speed, then came to a halt standing in front of the whiteboard again, his eyes fixed, every cell in his body at strained, acute attention.

Wilson stood there watching him for several minutes, but House had already tuned him out. "Yeah, you're obviously doing great," the oncologist muttered. House didn't even blink at the sound of his voice. Wilson withdrew to his own office, sticking around but trying to stay out of the way.

(H/C)

9:30 p.m.

Thirteen bent over the lab equipment, trying to steady her hands. The faint tremors were bothering her more, no doubt aided by fatigue at the moment.

"Hey." Foreman's voice sounded behind her, and she turned, crossing her arms to still her hands. "We need to talk."

"Not now. I've got to test this CSF."

His arms closed gently around her. "And what will the next excuse be?"

"This is _not_ a good time, Eric. I'm tired, and I'm busy, and House is waiting for these tests."

"I've waited all day. I know you don't like being pushed, but as a couple, we do need to talk about this."

"Fine," she said in a tone of finality. "Like I said, I've decided to quit the trial. I'm not entering another one. I've been trying different trials for a year and a half now, none of them have had any effect at all, and the symptoms are starting to get worse. So there's no point in staying in them. I'll keep doing my job as long as I can, but I've had it with straw-grasping. The road from here on is obvious. End of discussion. Don't you feel better for having talked through this? I do." She turned back to the equipment.

"Don't I even get a vote?" Foreman definitely had a trickle of annoyance running through the concern in his tone.

"Oh, do you have Huntington's, too?"

"As a couple, we ought to talk about this. There are new trials opening up every day. New developments. The road from here doesn't have to be a dead end."

She shook her head, focused tightly on the lab work, although she wasn't seeing it. "Don't you dare give me hope. We've tried it your way. For over a year and a half, I've tried it your way. No more. I want to spend what's left of my useful life doing things - working while I can, seeing people, NOT sitting in a different clinic room every day of the week. I'm sorry, Eric, but this is my decision, and I've made it, and it's final."

He backed off in that temporary surrender gesture people use when refusing to call the end of a discussion the end. "You're right. This isn't a good time to talk about this. You're busy, and you're tired, like you said. We'll talk about it later."

With a sigh, she returned her attention to the CSF. "It won't change anything."

"We'll talk about it later."

"Listen, this is _my_ life, and . . ." She trailed off, staring through the microscope, then scrambled for her cell phone. "House, white count on the CSF is elevated. Normal on the blood, but high on the CSF."

She could hear the gears kick into place in his mind. "Check CSF protein. Hang on a minute, other call. It's probably the boys." A minute, and he was back. "Test him for West Nile encephalitis. There's a three-sided storage shed in the back yard. Very damp, some standing water in containers. Mosquito paradise."

"I'll get the tests going right now." She sighed. If it was WNE, there was no truly successful treatment except supportive care. A few experimental things had been tried, but her opinion of experiments wasn't an optimistic one lately.

"I'll start him on ribavirin. Best shot we've got." He hung up then, not even waiting for the serology marker that would confirm his guess. Christopher had no time to wait. She nodded and snapped her own phone off..

Foreman moved up beside her. "What is it?"

"West Nile encephalitis. We think."

That at least knocked Foreman out of concerned but determined boyfriend into neurologist. "The kid is already over 104 and near unresponsive. If it is WNE, this isn't good." West Nile was actually quite similar to mild flu in most people, just an inconvenience, not always even noticed - but when it did choose to latch on with a grip, its teeth were sharp.

"You think it fits? No rash." She didn't want it to fit. She knew House was right.

"Only about half of them get a rash. No bites visible on the kid, but incubation period can be up to 15 days. Fall is one of the highest risk seasons." He turned away. "I need to get back up and examine him again."

Left alone with the microscope, Thirteen thought that Christopher Bellinger's future might even look bleaker than her own.

(H/C)

12:30 a.m.

House was sitting in his Eames chair, not stretched out but sitting on the edge of it. His bloodshot, fixed eyes were still staring at the whiteboard. All symptoms had been crossed off now except for two words: WNE. Glanzmann's.

Serology had confirmed it. House had already started ribavirin, successful in some trials, unsuccessful in others. The trouble with viruses is that they weren't as conveniently druggable as infections.

His cell phone rang, Cuddy's ring tone, and he pulled it out. "Hi."

There was a pause as she absorbed his tone. "How's it going?"

"I've got it solved."

"And that's not good?"

"West Nile encephalitis. The kid's fever is now 104.5. We've tried a cooling blanket, tried ice. I've got him on ribavirin. It's up to him."

"Rachel beat hantavirus, remember. You said that was all up to her, too. Kids are resilient."

He smiled briefly. "Right."

But Rachel had been loved and happy at the time she got sick, and even that young, she had known it. Christopher at the time he got sick had been bewildered, confused, and trying to make any sense of a world gone mad.

"If you want to stay with him, I understand." She was only giving permission for the decision that she knew was already made, saving him telling her.

He sighed. "Nothing more I can do, really. But yes, I want to stay and watch him. I sent the team home. You can call Wilson and tell him to go home, too. I know he's still hanging around the fringes tonight."

"I'll call him." She didn't specify what her instructions would be. "Are you okay, Greg?"

"I'm . . . dealing with it. It's okay." But damn, he hoped that little boy had more fight in him than House had had at that age.

_"Just a weakling."_

He shuddered. "I'm okay, Lisa. I'll call you in the morning, all right?"

"Okay. Try to get some sleep in your chair."

"I will." He knew he wouldn't. She knew it, too. Were it not for the girls, she would be up here alongside him tonight. He abruptly wished she were. Not to talk, just to be there.

A knock came on the door, and he looked up, surprised, to see Thirteen entering his office. "I've got company. Not all the team went home, apparently. I'll talk to you later, Lisa. Night."

"Good night, Greg." It was an empty wish. She knew he wouldn't have a good night. She hung up once he did and then called Wilson.

Thirteen stepped over to the chair. "I'd like to talk to you."

"Nothing's stopping you." His eyes had drifted back irrepressibly to the whiteboard, but their look was longing, not diagnostic. The puzzle was over. He knew the answer. He just didn't like it.

"I've . . ." She trailed off. Stating it officially to her boss made it so much more real.

"Let me jump start this conversation so we finish before midnight," House suggested.

"It's after midnight."

"Before midnight _tomorrow._ Your symptoms are getting worse. You're giving up on experimental trials. You're here to ask me to take you off patient duty."

"I could be here to quit," she challenged.

"Not in person at after midnight. You'd quit by a letter on my desk in the morning. You want limited assignments."

She shook her head slightly, amazed at his perception. He had taught her so much on this job. "I don't want the patients and the families noticing. I don't want them looking at me, like the family today was. I do want to work, long as I can be useful, but I don't want their . . ."

"Pity?" he suggested.

"Exactly," she agreed, then looked at him. His eyes were on his leg. She had no doubt he got the same reaction. It was why he hated lab coats; as he had often said, patients don't want a sick doctor. But his condition was chronic, while hers was worsening, and besides, she knew that as much as she wanted to, she really didn't have as much ability to dismiss the world's opinion as he did. He was stronger than she was.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay? You aren't going to try to talk me out of it?" She'd expected to win but hadn't expected to so soon in this conversation.

"No. Foreman will, though."

"Already has." She sighed. "And no doubt will again and again. _Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow . . ."_

House instantly filled in the rest of the quotation after she stopped. _"Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."_ His voice strengthened and deepened on the words, and for a moment, she imagined she was in a college play again.

Silence lengthened for a minute, and then he spoke up again, his tone conversational now but firm. "You do realize that when you start getting to the point that the quality of your work, not just its aesthetic appearance, is affected, I will tell you so in no uncertain terms, and at that point, you will have to quit or be fired."

She nodded. "I'd expect no less of you. When I can't do my job anymore, I won't stay. Too much risk of compromising patient care."

"Okay, then. From tomorrow, you are purely on differentials and labs, no patient contact. But you'll have to keep pulling your weight. I will be watching."

"Thank you." She extended her hand, and after a moment's hesitation he took it.

"Go home, Thirteen, and spend the rest of tonight avoiding talking to Foreman. No point in both of us staying at the hospital."

"Good night, House." She turned and left, and his gaze returned to the whiteboard. Only a solution now, no puzzle left to solve. Only Christopher had the answers from here on.

(H/C)

4:40 a.m.

House sat in a chair at the nurse's station, outside Christopher's room, watching, waiting. Waiting for one of two things. Either Christopher would suddenly miraculously turn around, or he would die. House knew that one or the other would happen soon. In the room, Patrick Chandler was asleep in one of the bedside chairs. Ann was in the other but not asleep. She was leaning forward, holding her son's hand. Once in a while, her gaze would travel out the door to meet House, and she would give him a look of reproach under the concern, but her attention would very quickly return to Christopher. House's eyes were mostly on the monitor. 105.1. They had tried every trick in the book to no avail.

A cup of coffee suddenly appeared in front of him, and he grabbed it and took a few gulps. Strong and so hot it burned his tongue. It was delightful. He looked up at Wilson. "Thanks. Still hanging around?"

"I took a nap in my office earlier for a while." Wilson hooked a chair over with his foot. "How's the kid?"

House shook his head. "105.1. I've tried everything I can think of. We've had him totally immersed in ice to the neck, although he's back under the cooling blanket now. He's been having occasional seizures for the last two hours." He rubbed his eyes and took another gulp of coffee. "I can't do anything else."

"I know, believe me." As an oncologist, Wilson hated most the times when he simply had no more answers to offer. He double hated it when those times involved children.

They sat there in silence for several minutes. Wilson had taken one look at House's strained, bloodshot eyes, and he knew this wasn't the time to start psychoanalyzing. He would bet that House hadn't caught any naps at all in his office. But Wilson, even silent, had to be better company than the ghost of John.

The wail of the monitors shattered the early morning stillness. House rocketed up off the chair, actually forgetting the cane as he limped quickly forward, even beating Wilson to the bedside. The nurses were responding, the crash cart coming. Ann's eyes were wide and horrified. Patrick, woken up by the commotion, sat in the chair just behind her watching, his attention not on her but on House. "I knew you'd fail," those eyes said, clear as day.

_Not yet I haven't,_ House told himself desperately. The paddles were ready, the cooling blanket stripped off, Christopher laid bare and tiny in the bed before them. "Clear!" he called, and the electricity slammed through the boy's body, jolting him briefly off the bed. House stared at the monitor, looking for a blip, a flutter, for anything.

So he would try it again. Charging higher this time.

"Clear!"


	9. Chapter 9

Probably the last chapter for the weekend. The next one is obviously complicated.

5:55 a.m.

Cuddy sat on the couch, waiting. The yoga routine that usually started her morning had never even crossed her mind today. Down the hall, Abby and Rachel were still asleep, though due to wake up soon, but she had just called Marina, making arrangements to have the nanny take the girls to her place for the day, something they'd done before on occasion, and then Cuddy left a message on her secretary's voice mail that she was taking a personal day.

Wilson had called her a few minutes ago, catching a brief private moment while House was in the bathroom, giving her a heads up. "Time of death was 5:10. House shocked the kid EIGHT times. I all but had to pull him off physically. The mother went into hysterics and was saying, 'You said you'd _help_ him.' Chandler was just looking at House. Never said a word, but you could tell House was hearing what he was thinking." The oncologist's voice was nearly flat, reporting all of the above like a news recap on the hour, but from excess emotion rather than lack of it. There simply was no way to adequately express the scene in that room, and he was floundering.

Cuddy closed her eyes. _Oh, Greg!_ She should have been there herself instead of asking Wilson to stick with him through the night. But the girls. . . "Thank you for getting him out of that."

"It wasn't hard, actually. Once he gave up on the kid, it was like all the fight went out of him at once. He just seems numb. I think he would have stood there for another hour and been blamed and yelled at, or he would have gone with anybody who tried to get him to move, no difference. I'm going to drive him home; we'll be there in about 10 minutes. He's coming out, got to go." He hung up without waiting for a goodbye.

So now Cuddy sat here waiting. She knew she needed to call Jensen, but that conversation would take a while, and she didn't need to be part way through it when House got home, the girls woke up, or Marina arrived. Besides, Jensen was in the next state, a couple of hours away, and Cuddy knew that simply shoving a phone at her husband as he limped through the door was not likely to be a good strategy. She'd call Jensen the first uninterrupted extended chance she got, but the emotional first aid was going to fall to her, not to the psychiatrist. She would be the first responder to the crisis, after Wilson getting him home, that is. She just hoped House would listen.

The headlights of Wilson's car splashed up against the house as he turned into the driveway. Cuddy stood up and walked over to open the door. House slowly limped up the sidewalk and inside. He looked like a zombie, face drawn, eyes bloodshot, obviously both physically and emotionally exhausted, the limp much worse than usual. The black eye and cut cheekbone only finished off the picture. Cuddy embraced him and was relieved to feel a little bit of returning pressure of his arms around her. After a moment, she let go. "Sit down, Greg." He dropped onto the couch obediently, and Cuddy turned to Wilson, hovering uncertainly just inside the door. Honestly, Wilson looked pretty worn out himself. "Go home, Wilson, have breakfast with Sandra, and then sleep all day. You've got the day off." She dropped her voice to just above a whisper, although House gave no indication that he was listening to them. "Thank you for staying with him through last night."

"You're welcome." Wilson's chocolate eyes, as worried as they were tired, went to House. "You need to call Jensen."

"I will, but not in his first 5 minutes through the door. He needs me right now, Jensen a little later. Go on home. We'll be okay." She glanced back at House. "I hope."

He hesitated, reluctant to leave, even though he knew he needed rest himself. "Call me if you need me."

"I will."

Wilson finally left, still casting sidelong glances back, and Cuddy turned to House. He was sitting on the couch where he had landed, eyes on the far wall, looking at nothing. "Greg." To her surprise, he did react immediately, looking back at her. She went over to join him on the couch, sliding up close to him, pulling his head over to her shoulder. He was as compliant as a ragdoll. "I wish there had been anything you could have done, but you did your best," she said, carefully avoiding the phase I'm sorry.

"I know," he replied softly after a minute. "It just wasn't enough."

"It was still your best. It wasn't your fault." She pulled him more tightly against her. His skin actually felt chilled to the touch, and she pulled a throw off the back of the couch, wrapping it around both of them, making a cocoon of warmth. He didn't say anything else for the moment, just leaning against her, closing his eyes on the world. Were it not for the tension in his body, she might have thought he had fallen asleep. She just held him for several minutes of silence.

Rachel was heard down the hall, with Abby as a slightly delayed echo. Cuddy pushed the throw back and then wrapped him up again. "I'll get them. Marina will be here shortly, and she's going to take the girls to her place today." He nodded. "Unless you want them here. I figured you'd be so tired." And in shock. And battling mental ghosts. She didn't think he'd want his daughters going through today with him, and they would also divide her attention, which didn't need to be divided. Not today.

He shook his head minimally. "I'll be okay alone," he said softly.

She leaned over to kiss him. "You aren't going to be alone, Greg. I'm taking the day off myself."

"Okay," he mumbled. No positive or negative reaction, just a response. Rachel was getting more demanding, and Cuddy turned away to head down the hall, but she was still looking back several times on her journey to the nursery.

When she returned a few minutes later, carrying Abby with Rachel scampering ahead of her, House didn't appear to have moved an inch, still sitting on the couch, wrapped in the throw, studying the far wall blankly. Belle had jumped up into his lap, nesting into the throw with unerring feline warmth radar, and one hand rested lightly on her, not stroking, just resting there. Other than that, it might have been the same snapshot she left ten minutes ago. He just seemed numb, like Wilson had said.

Rachel, of course, spotted him instantly. "Dada!" She pulled herself with difficulty up onto the couch. "Good morning."

That actually got the strongest reaction so far. House's fixed gaze broke, and he looked down at her. "Morning, Rachel," he replied.

She reached up to trace the discolored, swollen eye, and he flinched. "Ouch?"

"Right. I . . . hit it against something." Like a fist, Cuddy thought.

She still didn't think he'd be able to deal with putting on a front for the girls all day, and furthermore didn't think he needed to, but for the moment, she seized the diversion. At least he seemed to have thawed a couple of degrees. "Greg, could you hold Abby while I start breakfast?"

"Okay." He held out his arms, and she passed Abby to him. Rachel had snuggled down against the side not occupied by Belle. The scene almost looked tranquil, until she looked at House's eyes. They had been inserted from a totally different script.

"Dada," Abby said, reaching up as Rachel had to explore his eye.

"I'm okay, Abby," he told her. "Just whacked it. It will be fine in a few days."

Cuddy went into the kitchen to start breakfast, keeping her ears peeled, occasionally coming to the door to look back over at them. The girls, content to be held by their father after his absence last night, were happily snuggled up with the cat, but House's eyes were on Abby, and the expression there was heart-wrenching, both regret for the life lost and for the pain suffered beforehand.

Marina arrived before breakfast was ready, and there ensued the first battle of the day as Rachel decided that she didn't want to leave her father. Rachel had quite a temper and could use it at times. Cuddy won, of course, but the cries weren't doing much for House. The fact that he did not capitulate, only watched, reconfirmed for her, though, that he didn't have the strength to keep up the act in front of them all day today, and he himself knew it.

Finally, Marina was gone with the girls, agreeing to feed them at her place, and Cuddy finished cooking and then brought two plates into the living room for them. He eyed the food as if meals were a new invention. "You need to eat, Greg. I know you're not feeling like it right now, but it will help. You need your meds, too." Again, he gave in without any show of spirit, simply started taking numb bites.

Cuddy was revising her plans as she watched him. More and more, she was convinced that his body as well as his mind had hit complete overload. He badly needed to talk things out with her and with Jensen, but she thought that might be more effective after he had gotten some rest. The stress of the last 24 hours had utterly drained him. Going into a session with him this worn out seemed too much like it might backfire. "Greg, why don't we take a nice soak in the hot tub after we eat - it will help your leg - and then take a nap? I know you were up all night, and I only catnapped myself."

He looked up from his plate, another flicker of reaction in his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just tired, and so are you. Let's be lazy for a while. We both need the rest."

His eyes dropped back to his meal in progress. "Okay."

She hesitated. "And I really think you might ought to take the sleeping pill." She couldn't imagine his subconscious missing the opportunity to trot out a string of nightmares. He needed rest, not an even stronger return to his childhood.

"Okay."

This was uncanny. Her concern was growing; he seemed to have no spirit at all. Maybe the hot tub would thaw his soul a bit.

The hot tub was an addition last spring, one they had picked out together, and it did wonders for her own administrative muscle aches after long days as well as for his leg. It seemed to have some effect today, at least warming him up. They lolled around together for almost an hour in the heated water, more reassurance of presence than passion, and his skin no longer felt chilled when they got out, his leg not quite as cramped. He took the sleeping pill without protest, and they climbed into bed, joined by Belle. Cuddy, relaxed in spite of herself by the warm water, fought to stay awake. Just a little longer. Once she was sure that he was completely out and then had held him even longer to make double sure, she climbed out of bed, tucked the covers back over him, and then stopped for a moment, looking at the cat. Belle was curled against him, but her own eyes were open and looking back at Cuddy, and there was almost feline concern in them. "He had a rough night, Belle. You keep him company for a few minutes, okay?" The cat blinked as if agreeing, and Cuddy smiled briefly. You're losing it, Lisa, she scolded herself, but she still felt a little better about leaving him momentarily as she retreated to the living room.

She looked at her watch. 8:40. She called Jensen's office number, only to be told he was in an appointment. "Please ask him to call me as soon as possible," she emphasized. "It's urgent. Use my cell number."

"He should almost be done with his first patient, Dr. Cuddy. I'll give him the message."

She hung up and sat there mentally chewing her fingernails - she refused to allow herself to do it physically - until the return call came at 8:50.

Jensen sounded concerned. "Dr. Cuddy? What's wrong?"

For some reason, the question nearly made her break down herself as the magnitude of the last day hit her. "We . . ." She paused, taking a deep breath. Talk, damn it. You can cry later.

"What happened?" Jensen was really getting concerned now.

"There was a case yesterday." She launched into the tale. It was a long one, but she made it through without totally losing it, grateful that the psychiatrist was such a good listener, just absorbing details unfailingly. "He needs to see you," she finished.

There was a slight pause. "I definitely agree," he replied. "But it must be his choice. We can set something up, but he has to know in advance where he's going and why. If you blindside him with this, it will backfire."

"I'll tell him. I think he'll probably agree, though. He's just agreeing to everything at the moment. He seems absolutely numb."

"Is he still hearing his father?"

That was a good question. "I haven't asked him since he came home. I haven't seen him react to him, but given that he isn't reacting much to anything right now, that's not conclusive."

"Hopefully getting some sleep will help, too. Physical and psychological feed off each other. I could see him over my lunch hour, but that puts you all on a tight schedule and doesn't allow him much of a nap."

"Wouldn't work anyway. I talked him into taking a sleeping pill around 8:00. He's going to be out for around 7 hours. I decided watching him that he really needed the sleep first, and I'm sure he would have had nightmares."

"A wise choice. Okay, I can stick him on at the end of the day. My last appointment is 4:00, over by 5:00, but it doesn't matter when he gets here. I'll wait."

"Thank you. I know he had an appointment with you tomorrow anyway, but this won't wait."

"No, it won't. One more thing in the meantime, Dr. Cuddy."

Had she left some other important psychiatric first aid step undone? "What?"

"Get some sleep yourself while he does. You sound far too close to the edge on your own behalf, and I doubt you slept much last night either."

Jensen was near as perceptive as House. "I will," she promised. "I'll probably drive him up this afternoon, if he'll let me, but I won't go in with him. I know he likes to keep the sessions private."

"They tend to work better for him that way. See you this afternoon."

She hung up and glanced at her watch. She'd been talking to Jensen for a full hour. She felt a little better, though, feeling a strong ally in the battle. With a mental apology to his second patient of the day, waiting in line, she walked back to the bedroom, where House was still sound asleep under the watchful eyes of his feline guard. Rolling under the covers with a slight groan, she joined them in rest.


	10. Chapter 10

Apologies for any CPS errors. I only have limited internet research on procedures on that.

(H/C)

To Cuddy's relief, House did seem slightly more alive after several hours of sound sleep. He was still far too quiet, his eyes still haunted, but his replies to her at least averaged more than 1 word. He had no reaction except a half shrug of acquiescence, however, when she told him she had called Jensen and bumped up his next appointment from Friday afternoon to Thursday. The suggestion that she drive met with similar non discussion, which relieved her on the one hand, as she wasn't sure he should be driving, and worried her on the other, as he didn't protest that he was perfectly capable of it.

She ordered a pizza, as they had both slept through lunch. He didn't have any comments either verbal or by eye roll about her veggie half, but he ate two slices from his side and seemed to be tasting them a little more than at breakfast. Afterward, they got out her car and headed for Middletown. Cuddy was debating whether she should try talking about yesterday and last night herself on the drive or just leave Jensen with an open field. House simply looked out the window at the passing shoulder of the highway as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. She had just decided to interrupt his thoughts when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, looked at the caller ID, and his face went even blanker than it had been. He answered. His first few comments were brief and cryptic in the extreme - she couldn't even figure out whom he was talking to yet - but then his tone abruptly sharpened up with the most life he'd shown all day. "No. I don't. I . . . it might be called a conflict of interest down the road. Not objective." The flames died down as fast as they had flared up. "Yes. Thank you. I'd appreciate knowing whatever you can tell me. Okay. Goodbye." He hit end and stared back out at the roadside.

"Greg." He didn't hear her, and she repeated it a little more loudly. "Greg." He jumped, looking over at her. "Who was that?"

"CPS," he said with a sigh. His voice had dropped back down to soft, subdued, and detached, as it had been all day today. The low-key tone didn't match the words at all. "They've ordered an autopsy on Christopher. Won't release the body to the family yet."

That made sense, getting possible physical evidence the boy had been unable to tell them. "What . . . that wasn't what you were telling them no to, was it? An autopsy might be a good thing. It might give proof against that snake."

"What she wanted to ask was if I wanted to be there to watch at the autopsy along with the official investigating personnel, since I was attending doctor on the case."

Cuddy flinched. "No," she said firmly. If anything was left to ensure he would have several nights of nightmares after this case (unless drugged out of them), that was it.

His shoulders slumped. "I know. I couldn't take it." He turned away from her, looking back out the window.

Cuddy took one hand off the wheel and reached over to rub it up and down his upper arm. "It's not weakness to know your limits, Greg. Besides, like you said, it might be twisted by a low-life attorney into conflict of interest if anything did come to trial, even if you weren't yourself the doctor performing the autopsy. We know that Chandler knows you made the call."

"That's an excuse. I couldn't take it," he repeated flatly.

"Greg, you are a lot stronger than you think you are, and you've proven that even more in the last day."

He looked over at her dubiously. "Dodging out on Christopher is really a show of strength." He still didn't sound defiant at all, even when disagreeing with her. It was like he was stating a fact already proven in court.

"Stop it," she said firmly. He flinched and returned his attention to the window, and she sighed. "You haven't let Christopher down, not yesterday, not last night, not today."

"Then who did?"

"His mother's boyfriend. _He's_ the weakling here. He ought to pick on people his own size." House didn't reply, just staring out the window. "Greg," she continued, scrambling verbally for something that would reach through the shock and guilt and convince him.

"Do we have to talk about this right now?" His voice was still far too quiet, no irritation in the question. He might have been asking for the weather forecast, but the fact that he asked at all was a warning sign, and she heard it loud and clear.

She backed off. Let Jensen have a clear shot at him. Cuddy herself suddenly felt totally out of her depth. "No. Sometime, yes, but it doesn't have to be now. Just please talk to Jensen, okay?"

"Okay." He was still staring out the window.

The rest of the trip was made in silence. When Cuddy pulled into the parking lot at the office building in Middletown, House opened the door without a word and limped away. She had brought a file of paperwork from PPTH to review during his appointment, squeezing some work in to make use of the time. She never even opened it.

(H/C)

Jensen's secretary was gone, but the psychiatrist himself was sitting at her desk, not his own, doing paperwork. He looked up as House limped through the door. "Dr. House, glad you could make it. Go on into my office and sit down."

House turned that way without comment and went into the inner office. Jensen followed him in, watching closely, assessing, even while appearing on the surface just to be going over to the coffee pot in the corner. He fixed them each a cup, knowing full well at this point how House liked it. House went to his usual chair with ottoman, and sitting down drew the strongest reaction he had shown yet, as he flinched when lifting the leg up. Jensen concluded that he had strained it at least somewhat in the same confrontation that gave him the black eye. Aside from that, though, he seemed nearly passive, totally unlike himself, all of his usual dynamic energy evaporated. Jensen came back across the office with a cup of coffee in either hand and hooked the nearest chair over to sit down beside him. House took the offered coffee and took a gulp of it, then flinched. The fact that it was hot had surprised him.

Jensen started gently. This was a mine field if there ever was one, and extracting details while not pushing too hard was going to be tricky. "So, do you want to tell me what happened yesterday?"

"Lisa told you," House replied, the first words he'd spoken since entering the office. The psychiatrist noted the use of Cuddy's first name, which he never used in public unless he was completely rattled.

"She did, but as I understand it, she wasn't there for most of what happened. I'd like your side of the story."

House shrugged. "I wanted to try to help the kid. I couldn't."

"Dr. Cuddy said he turned out to have West Nile virus, right?"

"West Nile encephalitis, actually. More advanced course of the virus. Doesn't always go that far."

"Tell me about that diagnosis. How is it treated usually? Is there a medicine that's effective?"

House shook his head. "The only thing you can do is supportive care. Antibiotics are useless." He seemed to be kicking into medical gear, even if slowly, which is what Jensen was trying to accomplish. If he could get him into the purely medical aspect of the case, then transfer tracks, that was more likely to break the inertia than starting off immediately trying to break through the wall of perception of failure.

"It's transmitted by mosquitoes, right?"

House nodded. "Christopher" - he flinched slightly on the name - "didn't have visible bites, but incubation period can be up to 15 days. Mosquitoes get it from infected birds and then can pass it on when they bite. For most people, though, it's just a bad flu. There was a three-sided storage shed in the back yard at the home that had open containers with water and was near a damp spot. I assume Christopher played there. Just got bitten by the wrong mosquito."

This was a little better, although the lifelessness in his tone worried Jensen. "Is it always fatal?"

"Not always, but when it goes as far as encephalitis, it's always very serious. Even people who live often have long-term consequences. It can be disabling for life. Brain damage is quite possible, as well as residual neurological deficits."

"So even if Christopher had lived, his health would have been compromised."

That thought hadn't occurred to House at all. "I . . . yes, it probably would have."

Jensen was nearly around this bypass, coming back to join the main highway of the issue, hopefully further up the road than the site with the traffic jam. "So if this little, bookish, musical, and now disabled boy had survived and gone back to his home, the home with his mother's boyfriend, what do you think life would have been like for him?"

House jumped as that thought kicked in. John had been thorough enough on the disappointments of having a disabled son, and that was after House was an adult. If he had been disabled in childhood . . . if that disability had been not just physical but also might have had some mental components . . . life would have been even a lower circle of hell than it had. "He couldn't have taken it. But maybe the CPS case would have turned up something."

This was better. He was processing mentally, at least, not just stuck at the fact, to his mind, that he had let the child down. "Do you think it would have?"

House looked away. "I've been debating that since yesterday. I'm not sure. This hadn't been going on long, and the kid did have a clotting disorder. Medical evidence was equivocal. I was hoping CPS could turn up something with their resources, but I never gave it more than a 50/50 chance. If it failed, Chandler would have talked his mother into moving, and they would have just started again in a town where no one knew them." He shivered. "But I couldn't do anything else besides make that call. I couldn't deal with it myself. I wasn't strong enough." He jumped again slightly.

"Assume that you had been 'strong enough,' as you put it. How on earth could you have made a more successful investigation than CPS, even leaving the legalities aside? If there was no conclusive evidence, the courts would not have acted."

House shook his head. "I don't know." His tone was waking up somewhat, frustration showing through. "I should have done _something_."

"What?"

"Something that _worked._ But I couldn't take it."

"Go back to West Nile encephalitis. As a doctor, there are times like that when even though you have the answer, you don't have the solution to the problem. When a patient dies, is that automatically proof that his doctor was medically incompetent and failed him?"

House sighed. "No. You can't fix everything."

"Exactly. Nor can you in other areas besides medicine. From what I've heard, you handled this entire case quite well, actually." That surprised House enough that he looked away. He didn't say anything. "Recognizing your limits is progress. It isn't a show of weakness." House shivered slightly. "Finish your coffee, and I'll get you a refill." House looked down at the cup as if surprised he were still holding it, and then he finished it off in several gulps, feeling the warmth spreading through him, melting some of the feeling of ice. Jensen got a refill and brought it back.

"Dr. House, are you still hearing your father's voice?"

House's eyes dropped. "Sometimes."

"Since we've been talking?"

"Yes. Twice."

"These are actual things he said, verbatim quotes from him in your childhood, right?"

"Yes." House sounded slightly annoyed there. "They're just memories, not hallucinations. It's just the old soundtrack."

"What does he say?"

House shivered again and took a gulp of the new cup of hot coffee. "Mostly that I'm just a weakling. He said that all the time. Used it more often than my name."

"And was he right?"

House looked up, surprised. "Whose side are you on again?"

Jensen smiled slightly. "Yours. Let's switch back to Christopher for a minute. Here's a 4-year-old boy who is being abused. Was that his fault?"

"What? No, of course not."

"But if he'd been stronger, he could have reacted better to it. There must have been something he could have done. What should he have done differently to handle the situation better?"

"He was four years old. There's _nothing_ he could have done to change anything. It was out of his control."

"As it was with you." House looked away, trapped by his own statements. "You were three when it started. There was _nothing_ you could have done differently. And furthermore, when you did get some size in your teenage years, you resisted your father and started fighting back. Once you had the ability, you did act. So was your childhood the picture of just a weakling?"

House was starting to tremble, fine quivers running through his body. The suface of the coffee rippled like a river with a rapid, smooth current, although it was down a few swallows and didn't slosh over. "I . . . guess not." The tone carried more surprise than conviction.

"So here's what I want you to do with your father. When he accosts you from memories, simply tell him he is wrong." Jensen stood up and went over to one of the bookcases, opening a door in the lower part and removing a blanket from the cabinet. He came back over and offered it to House. "Give me the coffee cup for a minute and wrap up in that."

"I'm not cold."

"No, you're in shock, which is perfectly natural given the last day you've had. You'll feel better from it. Trust me." House tucked the blanket around himself, then took the coffee cup back, holding the cup between both hands, feeling the warmth hit him. "Is that better?" Jensen asked.

"Yes." He almost sounded surprised.

"Good." Jensen sat down next to him again. "Now, I want you to say it."

"Say what?"

"Say that your father was wrong."

House gave him a skeptical look that actually looked more like himself than almost any moment in the session so far. The shivering was slowing down. "And saying it is supposed to help?"

"It will help you believe it eventually. You've been listening to his side of the story, and that's only one side, far too long. I've told you many times over the last year and a half that your childhood wasn't your fault, but it's still having trouble sinking in. So yes, actually say it. Say he was wrong."

"He was wrong," House repeated dubiously.

"Good. And keep saying it. Say it every time his memory tells you otherwise."

House grinned slightly, the first time he'd even come close to it in this session. "Out loud? That might get . . . interesting out in public. People will think I'm crazy." The weak smile shattered. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"No," Jensen said firmly. "I think you are an innocent victim of a horrific childhood who is making great strides in overcoming it. Do you realize how much just the last day has shown your progress? You recognized your limits, you delegated the part of the case that was too painful for you, and you _did _keep working the medical case. You didn't let your own past impact your performance as a doctor. The fact that the child died is a tragedy, but it isn't because you let him down. You have done _nothing_ wrong here." House looked away again suddenly. "What are you thinking of?"

House was starting to shiver again slightly, and he took a few gulps of coffee. "I . . . did other horrible things today. Not with Christopher. Other things."

"What did you do that was so horrible?"

"I was thinking . . . when I came home. Lisa went to get the girls up. They were going with the nanny today, but they were there for a little while at first. When they came back, and I was holding them for a few minutes while she started breakfast, I was thinking . . ." He trailed off. The tremors were getting worse.

Jensen reached across gently to take his pulse. It was fast but not dangerously so. "Let me guess. You were worrying about the impossibility of protecting them from everything in the world, and then you were glad that you didn't have any more. You were glad that Dr. Cuddy was incapable of another pregnancy."

House's head snapped up, and he looked at the psychiatrist in absolute amazement. "How . . ."

"Do you think that's unusual? That no parent has ever had that reaction to a horrible situation before?" House simply looked at him. "Take me, for instance. Tell me, how horrible of a person do you think I am?"

"You're not," House replied.

"But I've had almost the same thoughts. Without getting into exact details, which are Melissa's to decide to share and not mine, there are very strong reasons why Cathy is an only child. It's a near certainty that she will never have a sibling. And the night that Melissa filed on me for divorce, I was _glad_ that Cathy had no siblings, even glad that Melissa had those physical issues, not out of spite, but because I felt awful for the pain that our daughter would go through, and I was glad that there wasn't any other child to feel that pain, too."

House was still staring at him. "You actually thought that?"

"Yes. Furthermore, I'd be willing to bet that Dr. Cuddy _herself_ has in the last 24 hours been glad that she can't have any more children. Because worry about the potential pain facing your children and your powerlessness to protect them from everything is common to 100% of parents - loving parents anyway - on the planet. Those who can have more children have probably at least once wondered if it would be better if they couldn't. Those who can't have more children have probably at least once been grateful for that fact."

House shook his head. "You think _she_ thought that, too?"

"I do, but don't ask me. Ask her. And about worrying about your own daughters, about it being near painful to see them and hold them at the moment, that is also quite natural. It will pass. Dealing with what happened is a process, and it will take time, but there's one major point I think you've missed in chewing yourself up about this."

"What's that?"

"You were worried about what future pain might be brought onto your daughters by other people and circumstances as they go through life. Correct?" House nodded. "Don't you see how much progress that is? Because you were _not _worried about possible abuse that might be inflicted on them yourself. You knew you were trustworthy with your children. That breakthrough has been a _long_ time coming." House was looking analytical. That point had completely failed to occur to him. Characteristically, after considering it for a few moments, he filed it for further thought and jumped tracks.

"CPS called."

"Today, you mean?"

House nodded. "On the drive up here. They're going to do an autopsy on Christopher. They wanted to know if I wanted to be present. I told them no."

"Good job." House looked at him in surprise. "Acknowledging your limits is a sign of strength. Remember that." House's eyes shifted slightly. "Don't forget. Your father was wrong. Say it."

"He was wrong."

Jensen nodded. House wasn't shivering as much now, but he looked totally drained. "I think you've had about as much as is productive today." House nodded, agreeing. "I want you to go home, talk to Dr. Cuddy at least briefly if you can, take the full dose sleeping pill, and then go to bed again. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I also do not want to cancel our session tomorrow. If you like, we can have it by phone. It would save you the drive." House nodded again. "One final thing for today. About your feeling that you should have done something that made a difference with Christopher's case, you still can."

"He's dead," House reminded him.

"Yes, he is. But many other children are not. This problem unfortunately impacts a fair percentage of children. Have you considered making a financial contribution to an appropriate organization in Christopher's memory?"

No, he clearly hadn't. His eyes were thoughtful. Jensen left it there and stood up. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Dr. House. And remember, your father was wrong."

House shook off the blanket and stood up. "I'll . . . try." He still sounded a bit skeptical. He still didn't look or sound anything like himself, but he was a little more thawed than he had been when he entered the office. "I'll call you tomorrow." He turned and limped out without a further farewell, and Jensen stood there lost in thought for a minute before folding up the blanket.

Down in the parking lot, House opened the car door and slid in, startling Cuddy out of worried preoccupation. She studied him. He still looked haunted, but he looked a little better. He also looked once again nearly physically exhausted. "I've talked to Marina," she offered. "She can keep the girls until 9:00, and then she'll bring them back to the house, and the nighttime sitter will meet her there and stay until we get home." House nodded, looking at his watch. It was 7:30. Cuddy switched on the car. "Let's go home, Greg."

"Okay." He was lost in thought as she started the drive, and she left him alone. She got the feeling he had had about as much talking as he could stand for the moment. About 45 minutes down the highway, though, he broke the silence himself.

"Lisa?"

"What is it, Greg?"

"Would you mind if . . . " He trailed off.

"If what?" She smiled across at him. "I probably wouldn't mind, but you've got to give me more of a clue than that."

"If I . . . gave this month's salary to a society for the prevention of child abuse."

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them back, focusing on the road. "I think that's a wonderful idea. No, I wouldn't mind at all."

He nodded. "Thanks."

They drove on in silence, but after a few minutes, his left hand crept over toward her uncertainly. She took her right hand off the steering wheel and gripped his hand tightly. It felt cold and not quite steady, but he returned the pressure of her fingers. They held the connection for the rest of the silent drive home.


	11. Chapter 11

Short Tuesday chapter. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

When they arrived home, the girls were already asleep, of course, it being 9:30, but Cuddy went in to check on them anyway after paying the sitter. Exiting the nursery, she encountered House coming out of the main bathroom. "I'm going to go fix us a quick bite to eat, Greg. Are you hungry?"

"Not much," he replied. "But why are you bothering to ask?"

She grinned at the ghost of his usual playfulness and wit. Weak imitation of it, but the imitation was there, at least. By the time she had soup and sandwiches ready on the table, though, he had disappeared. Questing through the house, she found him in the nursery, just standing there a few steps away from the cribs, looking at his daughters asleep. "Greg? Dinner's ready." He didn't respond, and she came up beside him and touched his arm, realizing then that he was trembling slightly. Not enough to be visible, but she could feel it through his sleeve, as if a private earthquake were going on somewhere far beneath the surface. "Greg?" He jumped and focused. "I apologize. Didn't mean to startle you. Dinner's ready."

He shot one more look at the girls, a look of pain, guilt, and something else she couldn't quite grasp. "Lisa, have you ever. . ." he started, then slammed on the verbal brakes.

"Have I ever what?" He was shivering a bit more, and she wrapped her arms around him, letting him feel the warmth of her presence.

"Never mind."

To hell with leaving him alone after his session. "No, we aren't dropping this one. Have I ever what?" Her voice was rising a bit, stubbornness kicking in. Rachel shifted in her sleep and gave a soft murmur, and House seized the opportunity to retreat.

"We're going to disturb them." He pulled away from her and left the nursery at his top speed.

His top speed still couldn't equal hers. She caught him easily before he was halfway down the hall. "Ask me whatever the rest of that question was, Greg."

He looked at her, torn. If Jensen was right, she had already had the thought anyway. But if Jensen wasn't right, then he would be not only reminding her of the pain and loss of a year ago, of having her uterus ripped away from her through a drunk idiot's actions, but he would be even in effect admitting to being _grateful_ for that event, albeit momentarily. If her thoughts hadn't matched his already, could she ever forgive him for gratitude for her own mutilation, even if a more inward and less obvious one than his leg?

Cuddy was trying to make sense of the emotions warring on his face. What question could possibly be this bad? She already _knew_ the facts from the last day, had already assured him that she didn't think he had done anything wrong. Why did he look like he had committed some unpardonable sin? "Come on, let's sit down." She steered him toward the living room and pushed him down gently onto the couch.

"You said dinner was ready."

"We can microwave it. Now what were you going to ask me?"

He stalled out totally, and he was still shivering somewhat, although she realized it was from emotion, not temperature. She started her own verbal differential, wishing she had his perception on her side to speed things along. "Is it something about the girls?"

It was, but he also saw and seized that as a diversion. She could read his eyes pretty well at this point. "It just . . . hurts to look at them. After Christopher."

She snuggled down even more closely against him. "I know. You wonder what kind of pain is in their future and feel absolutely helpless to do anything. That makes sense after a tough case involving a child who died, Greg. It's perfectly normal. Doesn't mean you're a bad father."

_"Just a weakling." _

House jumped in her arms as if shocked electrically. "You're _wrong_, damn it!" he shouted with the most life in his tone he had shown all day.

Cuddy stared at him, stunned at the intensity of the anger behind the words. "I'm not, but even if you disagree, there's no reason to yell at me. I'm just trying to help."

"What?" He looked back at her blankly, then realization a few seconds later. "No, I . . . I wasn't talking to you."

"Nobody else is . . ." Realization came on her own side. "Are you still hearing your father?"

He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "Yes. Jensen told me to tell him he was wrong. I'm sorry, I was trying not to hurt you, and now I did it anyway." His shoulders slumped in failure.

Cuddy sighed. "Greg, it's okay. Yell at your father all you want. It doesn't bother me. You just took me by surprise, but I'll understand next time." The last part of his statement suddenly registered. "Wait a minute. You were trying not to hurt me? Do you think that unfinished question was going to hurt me?"

Bingo. His whole body language confirmed it. "I can't. I can't tell you I thought that."

"What did you think that was so bad?" He shook his head, still looking away from her. "Did you tell Jensen?"

"Yes."

"What did he think?" She didn't usually pry into details of his sessions, leaving him to volunteer whatever he wanted to share, but she suddenly felt this was important. With all of his things to deal with currently, he didn't need a self-perceived fault against her added to the list. House was shivering more, and she pulled him closer to her. "Greg, what did he think? Did he think it was awful?"

"No," he admitted. "But he's not a mother."

"What is it?" She was scrambling. "I know you were worrying about protecting them, but that's perfectly normal. I'm sure whatever else you were thinking is perfectly normal, too. Please, Greg. I promise not to be shocked by it, okay? Besides, we need to eat and go to bed at some point, and I'm not getting up from this spot until we've finished this discussion." She set her shoulders stubbornly.

He sighed in surrender. "I was . . . glad . . . that you couldn't have any more." The last half of that statement was slammed together like railroad cars in a train wreck.

"That's not an awful thought, Greg."

He looked back at her. "Didn't you hear? I was _glad_ for what that idiot did. He nearly killed you and Abby, put you through all that pain, and I was _glad _about it."

"No, you weren't," she insisted. "You were only glad about the results, not the process. You were never glad about the pain. And you know what, Greg? Last night, while you were sitting up at the hospital all night with Christopher, I even thought once that I was glad of it myself. I was glad not to have to worry about the chance of bringing more children into a world with sick people like Chandler in it."

He was staring at her now. "You thought that, too?"

"Yes. It's not a horrible thought." He deflated suddenly, like a balloon, shoulders relaxing, and she felt at least part of the tension leave him. "It's okay, Greg." She pulled him into her. "It's okay. You aren't a bad father, a bad husband, or a horrible person. You're just a brilliant doctor who has had a horrible last day. You haven't let anybody down, including me and the girls." She felt him tense up again abruptly, and she pushed away to gain enough space to see his eyes. "Is that bastard trying to tell you things again?"

"Yes," he admitted, looking down to break the eye contact.

Her own voice kicked up into absolute fury. "Alright, John House, you sick sonofabitch, listen to me! You were wrong about everything you ever did and said as a father. I _love _your son, because he is an intelligent, witty, charismatic, strong _success_, and one of the first things he ever did to prove it was surviving the likes of you over the years and not letting you beat him. So _go to hell, _you miserable excuse for a human being, and _stay_ there." She finished, breathing a bit heavily, and then looked back over at House, who was watching her in shocked admiration. "See, _that's _how you yell at your father. You haven't had enough practice."

He smiled, the first real smile she'd seen from him all day. "He always was a coward at heart. I think he knows I've got an ally."

"He'd better. And what's more to the point, _you'd_ better." The fine tremors running through him had stopped at least. "We need to eat and then go to bed. Are you feeling better now?"

He nodded. "Better. Still not good."

"It takes time, Greg. But nobody is keeping score." She stood up and headed toward the table, then stopped in shock. "BELLE!"

The white cat, giving a feline smile as she licked soup from her whiskers, made a graceful dive off the table and vanished into thin air. The sandwich on House's plate had been excavated for the meat, and the level in both bowls was down quite a bit from original.

Behind her, House laughed. Weaker than a lot of laughs she had heard from him, but in that moment, she suddenly could have hugged the cat. She didn't even mind making dinner again.


	12. Chapter 12

Enjoy! I love Jensen. Plenty more of him in this fic, too.

The next two days are quite busy and not likely to produce a chapter. Patience is a virtue.

(H/C)

Jensen was sitting at his desk Friday afternoon, expecting House to call in a few minutes, when the door to his office opened and the man himself limped in. "Hello," Jensen said, getting up. "I wasn't expecting you in person, but I'm glad to see you." He went over to the coffee pot, keeping all radar focused. House limped over to his usual chair and sat down. He no longer looked like he was in shock, but he didn't look like himself, either.

"I needed a drive," House replied.

"Nice day for motorcycle riding." It was a gorgeous fall day, the sort that remind people how few like it probably remain before the onslaught of winter.

House studied him as Jensen came across the office with the coffee. "How did you know I took the motorcycle instead of the car?" he demanded.

Jensen sat down. "It affects your stride for a while when you first get off. Your leg was bothering you yesterday anyway, I assume from the fight, but this effect is different. The motorcycle bothers you more than the car."

House nodded slowly. "Reasonable deduction." Probably only Jensen could have made that last statement absolutely matter-of-factly. Cuddy would have been unable to conceal silent concern in her eyes as she said it, and Wilson would have been unable to conceal silent - or not so silent - expression of his opinions on the possible consequences of motorcycles, especially for someone with a bad leg. Jensen simply stated the fact, without any implication tagged on that House should reconsider riding the thing at all.

"So, has anything else happened since I talked to you yesterday?" Jensen started. Plenty was still undone from yesterday's session, but he first needed to make sure he was still up to date.

House's eyes were on his hands, which were both wrapped around the coffee cup, and his voice still lacked the usual distinct vitality. "CPS called just after lunch."

"Did they do the autopsy?" Jensen prompted gently.

House sighed. "Yes. Given that the kid did have a clotting disorder, all medical evidence was equivocal. No undeniable signs of abuse. No questionable old injuries. They're officially closing the case. They have other live fish to be frying, apparently, and don't want to spend more time trying to catch a dead one."

"You still made a difference to him," Jensen pointed out.

House looked up quickly, anger glistening in his tone. "_How?_ I couldn't save him medically, and I couldn't help him with Patrick, either. Name one thing I did for him that had any positive effect at all." His eyes were locked on the psychiatrist's, challenging.

Jensen was as unruffled as ever, not reacting to his patient's annoyance. "You connected with Christopher and got him to trust you, even in your brief time together. He would have sensed that he had someone on his side. He would have sensed the overtones between you and Patrick - on a 4-year-old level, granted, but I don't think he would have failed to pick up on it. Children are perceptive, and he would have been painfully aware of Patrick at all times given the circumstances. You showed him a difference, gave him hope that somebody could intervene." House considered that, his eyes falling away again, but he didn't respond.

"You also, by convincing his mother that he was seriously ill long before other doctors realized that, gave her better mental preparation for what followed. If this had been called just a case of flu up to near the very end, as Dr. Cuddy said it was before you became involved, she would have been blindsided by his death. Of course, she's devastated anyway, as any parent would be, but having some information about what is going on is far better than being kept in the dark by the ignorance of others. I'm sure you were honest with her about the gravity of this diagnosis once it was made, too. In those last few hours, she would have been praying and hoping otherwise, but she knew what might happen. She _knew_ what was going on with her son, thanks to you. Death out of the blue is even more of a shock to loved ones than death with some amount of warning, not that one day is much, but she wouldn't have had any accurate medical information along the way at all to prepare her until the very end without your contribution. You also put Patrick on warning that there are people who can see through his front. Maybe it will give him pause for thought in the future, which is doubtful, but it at least shakes his arrogance a bit. The fact that somebody stood up to him and called him by his rightful name will rock him, and he will not forget that. And even if it doesn't shake his arrogance enough to reconsider any future actions, you did put a formal complaint on file. The next complaint, if there ever is one, will be looked at much more closely because of that. You quite possibly made a difference here in some other child's future." Jensen trailed off, giving House a minute to think through all of that.

House let the silence lengthen for a bit, wheels visibly spinning, and then, as Jensen had expected, he changed the subject. "You know, the mother was one of the hardest points to deal with on that case. She was listening to me at the beginning, and then after CPS stepped in, Patrick convinced her I was accusing _her_. Which I wasn't, but I couldn't even speak up and defend myself. Irrelevant anyway; I knew we needed to get back to the medical case as much as possible. Even if I had been able to talk, it wouldn't have accomplished anything right then for Christopher, just wasted time trying to explain myself. After that, she was angry at me. Every time I was in that room, she'd look at me like I had just slapped her. And then when he died . . ." House trailed off, shuddering as he remembered the awful scene in that room and Ann screaming, "You said you'd _help_ him!"

"Dr. House?"

House realized abruptly that Jensen must have said his name more than once. He snapped back to the present. "I'm okay." He took a few gulps of his coffee.

"Were you hearing your father?"

"Not right then, for once. When Christopher died, the kid's mother was yelling at me, blaming me afterward." He shook his head. "She was saying, 'You said you'd _help_ him.'"

"You did help him. Remember what I just said. But just out of curiosity, did you say that? Sounds a bit odd for a statement from you to the family. To your team, maybe, but you hate making promises you can't keep, and to a patient's family, you'd consider that a promise."

House rewound the mental tape recording of the last few days. "No, actually. I asked her at first, trying to get the case, to let me _try_ to help him. You're right, I never in so many words promised her I could."

"That sounds more likely. Also, you definitely kept that promise. To try, I mean." Jensen diverted to save House the trouble. "By the way, just out of curiosity, why do you usually call the man Patrick? It's odd for you to refer to people in general by first name, and I think it's even odder in this case."

House grinned. "I got to thinking of him that way because I knew it annoyed him. In the elevator Wednesday morning, when I'd just bumped into him, didn't even know about the case yet, the kid's mother called him Patrick, and he objected and wanted her to call him Pat. Probably thought it wasn't macho enough."

Jensen returned the smile. "That makes perfect sense. Patrick he is. I want to talk about him today." House tensed up. "How is he similar to your father?"

"Aside from being an abusive sonofabitch?"

"Yes. Get into specific details. How he interacted with you, how he made you feel." House balked, looking away. "I know you don't want to, but I think it's necessary. You _need_ to, as part of processing this."

House sighed. "The hands. Amazing similarity on the hands, even physically, but more in attitude. The way he'd reach for something, and they could almost feel it before they got there, looking forward to grasping and dominating whatever it was they were after." He trailed off.

"Make it attempted dominating," Jensen pointed out. "On your father's part as well as on Patrick's, because with your father, and most definitely with Patrick, you refused to give in and be crushed. You are _not_ just a weakling, no more now than in your childhood."

As often as the message had been delivered, it was still sinking in, and House's body language showed it. He was making amazing progress in a year and a half of therapy, but against a lifetime of having the opposite message drilled in, the scales could still become unbalanced under stress. "His eyes," House went on after a moment. "Cold. Like they were enjoying the plans they had for you later. Also, like they'd sized you up and categorized you. He did that in the elevator that first morning, when he noticed the cane. One look, summed up, dismissed. I wasn't worth bothering with."

"You proved him wrong," Jensen pointed out.

"Only because of Christopher. I . . . I wasn't looking to make a point. Yes, he bothered me, but I was at work. I would have just walked away if it hadn't been for the boy." He shook his head, hearing his father's condemnation again.

"Your father was wrong," the psychiatrist reminded him. "Keep saying it."

"He was wrong," House said softly. Then he flinched. "I really threw Lisa for a loop last night. Dad was saying that, and he'd already said it several times on the drive home. I lost it and yelled at him, really got mad for a second."

"Good."

"Not so good. Lisa thought I was yelling at her. Didn't help that 'you're wrong' happened to be a response that made sense given what she just said."

Jensen winced sympathetically. "You _did_ correct her wrong assumption, didn't you?"

"Yes. I also finally asked her if she'd been glad we couldn't have more kids, although she had to drag it out of me."

"And had she?"

"Yes. She didn't think it was horrible at all. She said I wasn't glad of the pain from the accident, just the result of it."

"She was right." House smiled suddenly. "What are you thinking of?"

"She sort of got into the contest on yelling at Dad. Gave me a demonstration of how it's supposed to be done, she said." There was admiration in his tone. "She can really lay into somebody when she wants to. Remind me not to get her truly mad."

"She'll help you with this, if you let her."

House considered that briefly, then left it for thought and diverted again. "Back to Patrick. When he found out about the CPS investigation, he _knew_ it was me, immediately. He didn't need proof. The worker was trying to talk about confidentiality of reports, and he steamrollered straight over her. But his voice, when he was yelling, was all familiar. I felt like I was a kid again. And then when he . . ."

"He hit you." House nodded. "I'm sure that brought back a lot of memories."

"Yes. It was like I was Christopher to him for a moment, and the sick bastard got off on it. I could see it in his eyes." House took a few seconds to finish his coffee. "Actually, I knew a split second ahead of time what he was going to do, and I tried to dodge. Not quite fast enough to get out of the way - damned leg - but believe it or not, he didn't hit me as square as he meant to." House reached up to trace the bruised eye. "I don't think I would have fallen into the wall if I'd had two good legs."

Jensen straightened up a little. "You tried to dodge, you said. That's important."

House tilted his head. "Why on earth would _that_ be important? Just shows again that . . ." He flinched as John filled in the rest of the sentence.

"He's wrong, Dr. House. Say it, and then I'll prove it to you by your actions."

The light of curiosity flared up in the blue eyes. "How could you . . ."

"Say it."

"He was wrong. Now, your turn."

Jensen smiled. "Something you've said often from your childhood. Did you _ever_ try to dodge a blow from your father?"

"Hell, no. It would just make things ten times worse. I couldn't get away anyhow, no point in it."

"Precisely. You had to stand there and take it. You even had to thank him for it. That response was so drilled into you that even caught suddenly, you would still react the same way to him. Not that you didn't see it coming, but you knew resistance physically was useless. I noticed that myself in the one nightmare I got the opportunity to see; you are absolutely, eerily still. Whatever your dreams consist of, there is no active attempt at escape. Most people thrash and flail in a bad nightmare involving a physical confrontation, but you go perfectly still and just take it. Then once you got big enough in your teen years, at that point, you physically attacked him. As you did in hell, when you were provided a weapon. But at no point in your childhood, after the very first few times, did you ever try to dodge punishment from your father."

House was looking thoughtful. "So me dodging with Patrick proves that I knew he wasn't my dad?"

"You weren't actually confusing the two, just reminded by Patrick of your father. But what dodging does prove is that you didn't want to experience pain."

"Well, duh. That's sort of a reflex reaction."

"Not with you, it isn't. You quite often stand there and take pain. Not that you want it, necessarily, but you think you _deserve_ it. But there with Patrick, you knew that you did not deserve punishment, and you acted to try to avoid it. You are learning, even in the face of similar misauthority to your father's, that you do not deserve this, and you are not obligated to stand there and take it. And that is _hardly_ the conclusion of a weakling."

House considered that. "You know, one thing very strongly in Patrick did _not_ remind me of Dad. Patrick is a first-class manipulator. The way he tried to turn Christopher's mother against me, for instance. That was his default position, immediately manipulating to turn a situation to his advantage. He was manipulating her as soon as CPS informed him, even while he was yelling at me. Dad wasn't a manipulator. Dad had this ultra Marine idea of discipline and actions, and everything was governed by that, but there were rules. Sick rules at times, and I hated them, but there were always rules, and I could learn them. For Patrick, rules would be there to be twisted to suit his purposes. Dad would never twist rules; he'd try to beat me over the head into submission with them."

"That's an interesting analysis, and actually, I'm glad you can make it. Recognizing the differences as well as the similarities is important. Again, I really think you handled this entire case remarkably well. You did _not_ let yourself get bogged down in memories or sidetracked from the medical investigation. You stayed functional, under extreme psychological stress. You did your job. Well done."

House looked back down at his hands. "I still wish I could have done something more for Christopher."

"I wish he could have lived, but it wasn't your fault. And about his mother blaming you, it may take quite a while, but some day down the road, eventually, she will probably look back on this and be grateful that you were her son's doctor."

"It still almost hurts to watch the girls. I spent the morning with them today. Lisa took this morning off, although she had meetings this afternoon. She knew I was going to be talking to you anyway; I think she wanted to give me privacy. But we just spent the morning as a family, and Marina took the girls at noon to her place. Watching them play and laugh . . ." He trailed off, blinking a few times. "I _wish_ that little boy could have lived."

"So do I. Things will get better regarding the girls, Dr. House. It just takes time." Jensen looked at his watch. "We're running over, and you've had enough of this for right now. You did very well today, though." He stood up. "I'll leave your appointment for next Friday, but would you mind if I called you in between, just to check in briefly?"

House shook his head and started to lever himself up out of the chair. "That's okay."

"You can call me, too, at any time. And talk to Dr. Cuddy. She'll help you work through things."

House nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. "I will."

"Safe drive home, Dr. House, and I'll see you next week."

House nodded and left, taking a moment after exiting the office building to look around. He hadn't consciously noticed before, his decision made on autopilot, but Jensen was right. It was a nice day for motorcycle riding. He wondered if Christopher would have ever ridden a motorcycle if he had had a chance to grow up. With a weary sigh, House mounted the bike and headed for home.

(H/C)

House was still subdued and thoughtful over the next several days. Cuddy tried to coax him into talking at times and tried to distract him at others, and she was relieved when his first case when he went back to work Monday involved not children nor abuse but a middle-aged man who was keeping two wives and lying about it. The second house held the clue to his illness, and House's dissertation, delivered in front of the team, family #1, and a few hovering staff outside the door, on how the man being a lying idiot had worsened the course of his illness, gave the hospital grapevine a new subject to pass around, replacing the old news of the fight on Pediatrics. House came home full of satisfaction at a case solved and a moron exposed, but Cuddy still found him later that night once again standing in their daughters' room watching them sleep, his expression clouded. She teased him away with promise of extreme distraction, which he took her up on. Gradually over the days, the pain in his eyes when he looked at Rachel and Abby began to diminish.

And so everything was peaceful for three weeks.


	13. Chapter 13

Surprise chapter today, good for you, not so good for me. Server is down at work, so I made use of the gap while waiting to type out the next one. Might as well earn reviews; I wasn't earning money right now anyway.

_November_

Cuddy looked up from her desk as House limped through the office door, as usual not bothering to knock. She smiled at him. He still had a few shadows blow across his eyes at times, but overall, he seemed to be recovering from Christopher's case. "Hey. What brings you down here? I thought you had a case."

He shrugged. "I've already got the answer, just waiting for the team to catch up with me. It's a learning experience for them."

"You _are_ keeping an eye on the status of the patient while using this learning experience, right?"

"Don't get your administrative panties in a twist. The patient would probably disagree right now, but he's going to be fine. If they don't have it by the time I leave for Jensen this afternoon, I'll tell them."

"So what are you doing here, Greg? I've got a full day of work myself. Don't really have time to get distracted, as tempting as it sounds."

He grinned. "I promise to only distract you briefly - at the moment. Once we get home, on the other hand . . ." His eyes were full of plans.

She smiled, glad to see his mischievous and playful streak slowly returning, but she doggedly kept him to the point. "What do you need, Greg? Right now, while we're at work, that is," she clarified.

His mischievous expression vanished. "I was wondering if you'd mind if we invited Wilson and Sandra for Thanksgiving dinner week after next."

"I wouldn't mind at all, but what's the ulterior motive here?"

"I think Wilson could use cheering up. Family gatherings, people, the girls - he likes that."

Cuddy frowned in thought. "Why specifically does Wilson need cheering up?"

"I had lunch with him yesterday before he left for that 3-day oncology conference. He went on to the adult home after seeing Jensen Wednesday and visited his brother, and apparently, it was a rough visit."

"How's Danny doing?"

"About as well as somebody with a serious mental illness who's been on the streets, malnourished, and off antipsychotics for about half his life can be, but Wilson still has this hope that things will go back to the way they were." House shook his head. "Of course, if he'd stop and remember the way they were, that was hardly Disneyland, but he's not dealing in logic. He can paint an imaginary positive childhood relationship that didn't exist, just so he can miss losing it."

Cuddy nodded. "Of course I wouldn't mind, Greg. Ask them over for Thanksgiving. Unless they'd rather be alone as a couple, that is."

"I'll give them the option, anyway."

"And of course, the fact that it would be another two people to help draw conversational fire away from you has nothing to do with it."

He was the picture of innocence. "Are you questioning my motives? Why on earth wouldn't I want a full meal and full table conversation with your parents and a few extended relatives on your side?"

"They all want to see Abby, Greg, and it's the first general public opportunity. We were restricting contact for a while there until she got stronger. It's just one day, and I promise we'll have Christmas alone, okay?" She didn't add that having family present would make Christmas more difficult for him. He knew that already.

He nodded, all mischievousness gone. "We'll have a good Christmas this year. For the girls."

"I told you once that I wouldn't mind making it in January again."

"No. They'd notice too much as they got older. Everybody else does it at the right time; we just need to make our own good family memories." He straightened up, shaking off the Ghost of Christmas Past. "Okay, with the thought of Christmas with just you and the girls, I'll behave at Thanksgiving. But I still think Wilson could use cheering up. Any benefit to me by his presence there is just icing on the cake. I can multitask, you know."

She smiled. "Speaking of which, you need to get back to your team, and I need to get back to work. Remember, we're not eating out tonight as usual. Babysitter is out of town."

"So I'll miss my usual Friday night date. I'll just have to console myself with other activities instead." The light was coming back into his eyes.

"After the girls are asleep, I'm looking forward to it." She stood up and came around the desk, kissing him, a kiss with a promise, then reluctantly pulled away. "I really am busy today, Greg, but I'll see you tonight at home. Tell Jensen hi for me."

"I will." He turned and limped out, and she wasted a good five minutes of work time thinking about him, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and tonight, and him before she got back down to her allegedly all-important paperwork.

The day truly was a busy one, with a meeting with a donor and more time-critical paperwork afterward. Cuddy worked through lunch, sending her secretary to the cafeteria for a sandwich, and she had just finished eating it when the intercom went off. "Dr. Cuddy, there's a man here who says he needs to see you personally."

The name the secretary added didn't ring a bell. With a quick glance at her watch, Cuddy said, "I can give him 5 minutes. If he can't compress into that, he'll have to come back on another day."

"He says he'll just take a minute."

"Send him in." Cuddy stood up, stretched slightly stiff muscles, and walked to the already opening door.

She knew the minute she saw him: Not the individual but the breed. She had seen enough of them over the years at PPTH. A process server. "Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"

"Yes," she said, resigned.

He gave her a sympathetic smile that took part of the barb out of his actions and extended her a thick sheaf of paperwork. "You're served. Thank you." He turned and exited, and she walked back over to her desk so she could sit down before reading the lawsuit du jour. It wasn't absolutely guaranteed to be about House, whose suit rate was down in the last year and a half, but his living-on-the-edge diagnostic practices still made him one of the leading candidates. Sitting down at her desk and fortifying herself with a swig of coffee, she took a good look at the heading on the paperwork for the first time.

_Ann Bellinger vs. Dr. Gregory House, Dr. Remy Hadley, and Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital_

Cuddy nearly choked over her swallow of coffee halfway. Oh, hell. The name might say Ann Bellinger, but this had Patrick Chandler's fingerprints all over it. The name of the attorney was another familiar one, one of the gutter rats of the legal system, slinking around the edges and taking the dirty work. His tactics of battle were even lower than his reputation. She skimmed on through the complaint, looking for details of what they possibly thought they could sue for here. West Nile encephalitis was often fatal and very hard to treat. Medically, they should be able to defend against malpractice, but she hated having to drag Christopher back out of his grave mentally for House, even if they won in court.

The lawsuit was for 5 million dollars, alleging malpractice, negligence, and wrongful death, but the further she got into the complaint, the more horrified she was, absolutely frozen mentally, unable to look away.

_Dr. House was blatantly incompetent in performing his job as attending physician, resulting in a delay in diagnosis and treatment and thus contributing to Christopher's death. Dr. House was so distracted by his memories and flashbacks of his extensive abuse by his father in childhood, including ice baths, regular physical beatings, being pushed down stairs, being made to sleep outside, and even once being literally nailed to the floor, that he was unable to focus or function medically and instead projected his own experiences into Christopher's situation and onto Christopher's innocent and loving family, accusing them falsely of abuse, which claim was disproved by CPS investigation, and further delaying the medical treatment of Christopher. Dr. House's clear inability to concentrate enough to perform his job correctly and his extension of his own experiences onto a completely innocent family resulted in blatant negligence and delay in Christopher's medical treatment that amounted to medical homicide. _

_Dr. House furthermore failed to realize that his main subordinate doctor on the case, Dr. Remy Hadley, was so advanced in her own diagnosis of Huntington's chorea, already in the symptomatic stage and having failed several medical trials, that she was no longer able to practice medicine competently or effectively due to physical and mental overlay from her disease process. Dr. House as her direct supervisor was responsible for her actions on the case, but he was too distracted by his own memories and his creation of imaginary abuse of Christopher to accurately supervise his subordinate's work on the case. Christopher's injuries were caused solely by his clotting disorder, as was concluded by autopsy mandated by CPS. This mandated autopsy and the delay in release of the body further contributed to Mrs. Bellinger's extreme emotional distress. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, by failing to recognize that the mental state of Dr. House and the physical state of Dr. Hadley made them incapable of practicing competent medicine, is also culpable in the death of Christopher and in the irreparable loss and emotional damage to Mrs. Bellinger. _

Cuddy wrenched her eyes away. Her pulse was pounding, her breathing rapid, her palms sweaty. Oh God, _how_ was House going to react to this? Wilson's revelation of the abuse to Blythe literally almost killed him, and this was on a far greater scale. She bolted out of the office, leaving the paperwork on her desk, and her secretary looked up in surprise as Cuddy sprinted past her. Doctors never run in a hospital, trying to always maintain the air of control and steady competency for the patients and visitors, but today Cuddy raced through the lobby like a sprinter off the blocks in the 100-yard dash at the Olympics. She slammed her hand against the elevator call button, then turned without waiting for it to charge up the stairs.

When she skidded to a stop in the door of the conference room, Foreman and Taub were there, apparently in a mini differential. Her husband was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's House?" she panted.

Foreman looked up, taking in her accelerated breathing and slightly disheveled appearance (she had been gripping her hair in both hands and twisting it by the end of her reading). "Are you okay?" he asked in mild concern.

"Where is House?" she demanded, volume five times greater than the first request.

Taub shrugged. "Don't know. We were working on the case - the three of us on the differential, Kutner breaking in, Thirteen in the lab. A process server came in; guess you've got another lawsuit on your hands. House made some smart crack to him, but when he got to looking over the papers, he just turned and walked out. Didn't say anything at all to us. Just left."

She made a rapid U-turn and charged down the hall toward Wilson's office. It was locked, and she remembered belatedly that Wilson was away at a conference today and this weekend. Besides, she realized, if House were going to turn to somebody right away in this, he would have turned to her first. Maybe he was just too distracted to think through where he was going and only wanted to go _somewhere_. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number. It rang several times, then went to voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message and tried again with the same result. A third time was no different. He was ignoring the cell phone, and he hadn't come looking for her. He was obviously in full flight mode.

Chewing her lip in worry, Cuddy set out at a rapid pace. She would start at his favorite hiding spots in PPTH, then widen the field of search from there. Every few minutes, she tried again to call him.

There was no answer.


	14. Chapter 14

Server down again. Sigh. Trying to work late to make up time from earlier. Oh, well. We'll run near constant cliffhangers for the next several chapters. Friday night in this fic is a trainwreck of colossal proportions, and we'll be there for a while. Thanks for all the reviews!

(H/C)

House didn't hear the cell phone.

He stood on the roof, leaning on the barrier wall, looking out over Princeton. It was a gray day with ominous skies and intermittent, spitting rain, but he didn't notice. His mind had become a whiteboard, and he was consumed with the differential there. Writ large across that whiteboard was the big question: "How did Patrick know the details?"

Actually, that wasn't the biggest issue. An even larger one was lurking in the background, that being labeled, "Everybody knows." But that one was too large, that pit too deep; he would stumble in and be trapped in endless free fall if he went there. So he walked carefully around the edges of that chasm and focused every brain cell on the other question of logistics at the top, ignoring the gaping pit next to him. It wasn't even a conscious decision. His subconscious had kicked into protective gear, refusing to let him go there yet. It would have to be faced eventually, but right now, in the shock of the moment, he simply could not take it, and part of his mind realized that and threw up a wall to keep him safely away from the edge.

So he studied the mental whiteboard.

How?

_How?_

Yes, Patrick had sensed that House had been abused, but the paperwork had gone far beyond instinctive recognition. The legal papers were rolled up tightly in his hand now, and he didn't open them to read again, but he did not need to. There was a direct, extensively knowledgeable source of information that had, intentionally or accidentally, betrayed him to the enemy. And how on earth could that be accidental? How was it _possible _in a casual conversation to say, "Oh, and by the way, House was once nailed to the floor by his father." Nobody was that socially stupid, not even his mother.

But even harder to imagine anybody revealing those details deliberately.

Yet the details had been revealed. Patrick had been handed the ammunition. By whom?

He wrote out a list of possibilities on his mental whiteboard. The extent and precision of the details in the charge cut the possible list of informants down to a short one. There were only four people, himself excepted, who knew every one of those details. Their names ran down his whiteboard in a column. Cuddy. Wilson. Mom. Jensen.

One of those had given such details to the enemy, and he couldn't imagine any of them doing so.

Okay, let that gel for a moment and switch to a secondary track. He made another column mentally on the right half of the whiteboard and headed it Thirteen. That diagnosis was easy. He could still remember Foreman accosting her in the door to Christopher's room, trying far from inaudibly to get her to go to her clinical trial appointment and then objecting when she did not. He had actually mentioned Huntington's. Patrick had been clear across the room, but his attention had sharpened at the confrontation. Patrick at that point couldn't have known about Christopher's impending death or the lawsuit to be, but the man obviously was one of those who simply never missed an opportunity to store up information that might be useful to manipulate someone in the future. So credit Foreman with that, which Thirteen was intelligent enough to do herself, and House imagined they would have some rather heated conversation at _chez_ Hadley and Foreman tonight. He wrote down Foreman mentally, using black marker, of course, circled the name, and then returned to the left side of the board.

Cuddy. Wilson. Mom. Jensen.

Blythe had to be the leading candidate at first glance, but he couldn't believe it. After his threats last year to never speak to her again if she revealed a detail of his abuse in public, threats which she had taken extremely seriously, because he had been dead serious when he made them, he couldn't imagine such a lapse. She was a little naive, but not even she could report that list of events from childhood without noticing. She'd met Patrick, but only for a moment, when she came to the room that day to say goodbye to House. He mentally replayed their conversation and found nothing there at all even approaching confidential. It had been a pleasant goodbye, had a nice visit, and I'll get you a Reuben. And shortly after that, she'd left for the airport.

But if it wasn't her, it was one of the other three, and they were even harder to imagine. He pulled out his cell phone, not noticing the missed calls, and dialed.

"Greg! How nice to hear from you. I was going to call tomorrow night as usual."

"One quick question, Mom."

"Of course, dear. What is it?"

"Have you _ever_ at any point in the last month mentioned precise and extended details of my childhood to anybody you happened to meet?"

She was stunned, and he heard the shock resonate through the phone. Her cheerful tone imploded. "No. What on earth?"

"Think about it, Mom. Anybody at all?"

"No. Not in the last month, not in the last year. Not since you told me you'd never speak to me again." She was starting to get agitated. "Did somebody find out somehow, Greg?"

"Something like that."

"Greg, I swear, I swear on a stack of Bibles, I have NOT broken your confidence on this. I would never say anything. You'd never speak to me again, and Lisa told me once she'd withhold visitation rights on the girls for life. If somebody knows something, it isn't because I told them." Tears were welling up in her voice now. "_Please_, Greg. You've got to believe me. I have _not_ told anybody about what happened. I would never talk about your childhood or anything related to it with anybody. Gregory, are you listening? I _swear,_ I didn't do it."

He sighed. "I believe you, Mom."

"Greg, what's going on?"

"I'll call you later when I get a chance. Thanks." He hit end and stared at his mental whiteboard with a sigh. Slowly, he crossed off his mother's name. Oblivious she might be, but she would never lie to him about this, and the agitation in her voice as she considered the consequences that might be dealt out for another's sin had been absolutely genuine. So had the shocked silence after his first question. She had not told anybody.

Cuddy. Wilson. Jensen.

He crossed out Cuddy with a firm slash. No, never, not in a million years. That one was truly impossible.

Wilson. Jensen.

Wilson? He had done it once. But he had been so appalled at the impact of his actions, so contrite, so incredibly conscious of House's privacy since. House simply could not believe he would make such a lapse - and this wasn't a slight stumble but a major, gaping breach of confidentiality. No, after the disaster of a year and a half ago, the oncologist would never do this. House didn't even need to call to ask. He crossed out Wilson's name.

Jensen.

No. Not possible. Jensen had more explicit knowledge than anybody else on the list, including Cuddy, but House tried to picture the psychiatrist casually in conversation recounting such details, and his mind balked. No. He slowly crossed off Jensen's name.

Who else? Nobody else. Not that specific. The source of information _had_ to be through one of those four. Those three, actually, because Cuddy was beyond inconceivable. He felt guilty for even putting her on the list at all.

_Think_, damn it. Is there any other way?

A mental image flashed through his mind of himself breaking into Stacy's therapist's office and copying her detailed notes. Jensen's notes no doubt knew a good bit of what Jensen did. He wrote that down in larger letters under the four crossed-out names.

JENSEN'S NOTES

Okay, good. Patrick or somebody he hired had broken into Jensen's office and copied House's file, looking for anything to use against him after Christopher's death. House himself had broken into Jensen's office a year and a half ago; he knew it was possible. That fit except for one annoying detail.

_How_ had Patrick known where to look for House's file?

He couldn't imagine the man simply breaking randomly into every psychiatrist's office in hopes of eventually hitting the right one, particularly when the right one was two hours and a different state away from House. No, Patrick had known that House was a patient of Jensen's, had known by name. This time, the leading candidate had to be Jensen himself, because Patrick had been part of Jensen's extended family for a while. House had never followed up on what happened, how the man had broken out of that circle months ago and into Christopher's recently, but no doubt at some point months ago, Jensen must have mentioned that House was a patient. Jensen's family still talked about House as the doctor who saved Cathy. Put together the name House as doctor who saves kids and the dropped comment somehow, with no further details, by Jensen that he was a patient, and Patrick would have remembered that later and started putting details together when he encountered House on Christopher's case. He would have _known_ where to find Jensen's office.

Jensen had to have mentioned casually in Patrick's hearing at some point that he was seeing House professionally.

Anger flared up, and the mental whiteboard was ringed with fire as House studied the conclusion.

JENSEN'S NOTES == Jensen

It fit perfectly. The one diagnosis that would lead him there. The first flake from months ago that had built up into the avalanche currently hurtling downward.

Jensen, in one casual remark, had betrayed his confidence and ultimately opened up his past to the whole world's eyes.

He should have known the psychiatrist was too good to be true, too infallible, too helpful. House felt absolute fury taking hold of him. He had an appointment this afternoon. He would go there, show Jensen, whom he did believe had no malicious intent, what his one slip months ago had caused, and then he would quit and walk out of the office. Yes. That was it. Wouldn't help much with the current Patrick situation, but it would at least make House feel minutely better. His thoughts felt clearer now. He had a plan of action.

He leaned against the wall, staring at the clouds, which looked as angry as he was, and all the while, his mind skirted the top of the central pit, channeling all frustration and anger and helplessness toward the issue of how, protecting him from the gaping infinity below titled, "Everybody knows."

(H/C)

Cuddy pushed open the door to the roof. It was one of her last sites in the hospital to search, simply due to the weather. But yes, there he was, standing out at the wall in the wind and spitting rain. She gave a sigh of relief mixed with worry and came up behind him. "Greg?"

To her surprise, he heard her the first time and turned to face her. The expression in his eyes wasn't what she'd expected. She'd thought he would be totally numb, shutting down against the magnitude of the suddenly expanded field of knowledge, locked up as he had been after Christopher's death, but instead, he looked furious.

Well, good. That was better than numb, frozen shock. Let him be mad at Patrick; anger could be directed into productive action. "We can beat this," she said, enveloping him in a warm embrace. "Somehow, we'll get through this."

He nodded. "I don't see the end of it, but at least we know what we're up against."

"Chandler, of course. He's behind this."

"Yes." House broke away from her, and she saw the blue fire in his eyes. "That manipulative snake." He could tell she thought he was mad at Patrick, which he actually was. Let her think that was all. If he told her his actual intentions, she would no doubt disagree with his plan. She thought therapy helped him too much. Well, so it had, but after a year and a half, he was officially declaring himself well. He knew he would never be able to trust any psychiatrist enough to open up again. The course of treatment was over, and it was time to move on.

Cuddy smiled. "I'm glad you're thinking about how to get through this. I was worried . . . "

"That I'd totally go off the deep end?"

"Well . . ."

"I've had a year and a half of therapy, remember? It's got to be good for something."

"You weren't answering your cell phone," she pointed out.

He looked at it, surprised to see 12 missed calls. Apparently, his brief one to Blythe had slotted between Cuddy's to him. "I . . . I apologize." He managed to stop himself from saying he was sorry. It would be too much of a clue to her that he wasn't as settled as he was pretending to be. "I just needed to think things through for a while. I guess I didn't hear it." He looked at his watch. "I need to get going to make Middletown on time. I really think what I need to do now is go talk to Jensen."

She nodded. "I think that's a fantastic idea. He'll help you sort things out. But are you sure you should be driving, Greg?"

"Yes." No way was he taking her to this one. Walking out in the middle would be fairly hard to miss, even if she waited in the parking lot. "I was too distracted at first, trying to make sense of everything, but I'm getting a better grip on it now, I think. I'll be okay to drive." That was perfectly true. He hadn't felt safe to drive earlier, the reason he'd bolted to the roof instead of out of the hospital totally, but he did feel much more stable and in touch with his surroundings now. Mad, yes, but not distracted. He'd be okay to drive to Middletown. He gave her a kiss. "I need to get going, and we're getting kind of wet out here besides. I'll call you later, okay? And I'll see you when I get back."

"Okay. Go talk to Jensen, Greg." Together, they walked back off the roof and took the elevator from the next floor below down to the lobby. Cuddy's cell phone rang as she got off the elevator, informing her that two members of the board were here. She sighed and didn't tell House that word was obviously spreading, merely wishing him a safe drive, not saying to where or giving details as they were out in the lobby now where people might hear. She'd do damage control here as best as she could. He was right; what he needed most right now was to talk to Jensen. She was relieved at how he seemed to be taking this.

House walked out of PPTH and headed for his handicapped parking spot. He hadn't lied to her. He would drive to Middletown and talk to Jensen, but this time, the psychiatrist would be the one answering the hard questions.


	15. Chapter 15

Woken up early by my cat, so I typed out the Jensen session unlike any other. :) I must say, I'm a bit surprised reading reviews this morning the direction several of you are thinking. You as readers had a large clue that House himself did not, and that clue doesn't point to Jensen. Thanks for reading, everybody!

(H/C)

"Come in, Dr. House. Good to see you." Jensen stood to go to the coffee pot, then hesitated, his smooth stride catching for an instant, as he looked at the other man. He recovered almost instantly and went on to the corner with the coffee.

House limped across the office and sat down at the desk, ignoring the chair with the ottoman. His whole body posture was tense, and his eyes when Jensen sat back down across from him were glittering blue diamonds of rage. Jensen had never seen him this mad. "What's wrong?" he asked, setting down the coffee cups on the desk. Normally, he would never open a session with House with that question, but today, there was obviously some issue nearly boiling just under the surface, looming so largely over everything else that instinctive evasion wasn't likely to be a problem.

House ignored the coffee. He was still carrying the rolled up, slightly rain-spattered paperwork, and he unrolled it and slapped it down onto Jensen's desk. "What do you have to say about that?"

Jensen skimmed through the complaint, his eyes widening slightly. This was going to be a true challenge to deal with, the more so because Patrick - had to be Patrick behind it - apparently lacked a sound medical case and thus must have lower motives than winning, probably the exposure of the abuse in open court. A first-class manipulator, House had called him, and he had proven it, unerringly selecting the card to play that carried the most impact. Jensen looked back up at House. "It's got to be Patrick behind this, not the mother. He's using her."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Jensen flinched slightly. House was not only mad but specifically mad at _him_, although the psychiatrist couldn't imagine why. "There's a much more important question to ask here than things a 2-year-old could work out."

Jensen kept his tone even, not reacting to the emotional level in the room. "Yes. As I understand it, he doesn't have a medical leg to stand on here. He has to have another motive, probably exposure of your own past."

"That's NOT the question I was referring to. The big issue is _how_? How did Patrick know those things?"

Jensen studied House, hearing and seeing the tension level flare up briefly even more on the first part of that sentence, every inch of him joining in the denial. He's compartmentalizing, Jensen realized. He's terrified of the exposure, and he can't face it right now, so his mind is walling that off, and he doesn't even realize it. Jensen proceeded gently. "My guess would be that he hired a private investigator to dig around."

"And how did that PI know to dig in your office?"

Jensen shook his head. "The information on you did not come from this office, Dr. House."

"Bullshit. You're just covering your tracks." House leaned forward a bit. "You told Patrick."

Jensen was absolutely stunned into silence for a minute, even realizing the desperate scramble away from the central issue for House of the abuse being known that prompted the accusation. House was channeling all of his helplessness and fear into anger at a peripheral target. Jensen finally regained his voice. "I assure you, I have never told anybody about those events."

"Oh, even you wouldn't be that stupid, but you had to show him where to look. He broke into this office to look up my file because you had told him I was a patient of yours."

"I've never had a conversation with Patrick in my life," Jensen replied. His own concern for House was multiplying exponentially, but he kept his voice even.

"He was in your family," House challenged.

"On the extreme periphery of it. The sole time I've even seen that cousin of Melissa's in the last 2 years was at the wedding. I didn't talk to either her or to him there."

"In his hearing, then. You told somebody else."

Jensen shook his head. "I don't talk about my cases, and I certainly don't identify my patients. The only people in my circle who know you are my patient are Melissa and Cathy, because they saw you here. Melissa would never reveal that, and I don't think Cathy would, either; I have told her before in general how important people's privacy is. But I _know_ that nobody broke into this office for your file."

House shook his head. "You're lying. You told somebody. Your own brother mentioned how much he had heard about me."

"That you saved Cathy. Your only identity in that story is as Cathy's doctor. Really, there's no reason for people to assume that you first met her here; she's almost never in my office. I do make all efforts to keep work and family life separate. That day is the only time in the last few years she has even been here. But the focus of the story about her illness is on the diagnostics, not on how I or Cathy knew you anyway. I know a lot of people, including all sorts of doctors, not all of them local. The fact that I know somebody is not a red flag to my family that this is a patient. Besides, as I said, I can prove this office was not broken into."

House scoffed. "I broke into it _myself_, remember?"

"Absolutely, and that's how I know nobody has since." That statement rocked House out of his angry accusations for the moment, curiosity starting to battle fury. "You met my twin brother Mark at the wedding. Mark is into security systems. The fact that you managed to get into this office, innocent though your motives were, shook me, precisely because of a possible breach of confidentiality. So I asked Mark - without giving a reason why or naming you, just said I had a reason - to take further steps to secure things. He spent a few evenings the very next week up here. Not only is the lock on the door a harder one to pick now, but there are also some infrared eyes around the office, specifically across all paths to the file cabinet and right in front of it. If anybody were moving around in this office after hours going to look at the charts, an alarm would go off, both an audible one here and an electronic one at Mark's security company, and the police would be called. There has been no alarm. Nobody has broken into this office."

That for the first time made House pause in his runaway fury to think. "It has to be this office," he said.

Jensen shook his head. "Considering the possible sources of information, I think there's an obvious one."

"You're not pinning this on my mother. Besides, I already called her and asked."

Jensen leaned forward a bit himself. "_What_ exactly did you ask her?"

"Whether she's told anybody in the last month about all those events from childhood. She adamantly denies it. I believe her. She knows I'll end the relationship if she tells anybody else about the abuse."

Jensen sighed. "I really think that was the wrong question. I agree that she wouldn't say those things, but I still think she was indirectly the source of information. There's somebody else in the know whom you haven't considered."

"Who knows all of that?" House asked skeptically. "Wilson couldn't. Cuddy wouldn't. We're left with you and Mom, and both of you deny it. One of you is lying, and I don't think she's capable of fooling me on this."

"And your mother's psychiatrist," Jensen added.

House's eyes widened as the jolt of that hit him almost physically. "Damn. How could I forget . . . so you're suggesting somebody broke into _his_ office?"

Jensen nodded. "Given the possibilities, that strikes me as the most likely source of the leak. I _know_ it wasn't here. I know my security system. I can't speak to his."

"But how would Patrick know . . . her psychiatrist is in _Lexington_."

"Assume that Patrick is, as you said yourself, a first-class manipulator. Assume that he spots potential weaknesses in anybody and tries to collect ammunition for the future, even if he doesn't see any immediate need for it right then. Would you agree with that?" House nodded. "Dr. House, a person of that type could spot your mother a mile away at just one glance. She is _by far_ the most easily manipulated of your list of possible sources. Patrick sensed that you were abused yourself; checking out your parents would be a very logical step if he hired a PI. And your mother, not intentionally but in nice, friendly conversation, would probable reveal some interesting bits of information. Never the details themselves, I agree, not at this stage, but I can quite easily see her telling a stranger that she's seeing a psychiatrist without mentioning why. I think she must have met either Patrick or an agent of his since Christopher's case. A purely social conversation - as far as she knew - which would not be memorable later when you were asking her if she'd revealed all the details directly."

"Hell, she met him _during_ the case," House stated. He was looking thoughtful.

"When?"

"She was visiting for a few days over Abby's birthday, and she came to the hospital that morning. I'd originally planned lunch with her, and then I backed out by text when the case came up. So of course, she had to come by the hospital to make sure I really couldn't and then to offer to get a sandwich to bring up to my office. I accepted the sandwich, told her goodbye, and went back to work."

"And did you address her as your mother in front of Patrick?"

"Yes." House's eyes were changing now from fury to analysis tinged with recrimination.

"Dr. House, Patrick having the opportunity to get some information from your mother is one I can't imagine him missing, even before Christopher's death. As I said, he would have recognized her type. You say she was going to go get a sandwich to take up to your office. Did he leave the room just after that?"

"Yes." His tone was flat now. "I never even . . ."

"Call her right now and ask," Jensen suggested. He wanted to nail this down, right now, irrevocably, in this session. House would need his help more than ever to deal with this. He wanted every possible doubt of his own involvement put to rest. He wasn't about to risk their therapeutic relationship, not with the case looming on the horizon and the exposure of the abuse to a far wider audience.

House pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Hi, Mom."

"Gregory?" She sounded concerned. "Are you okay? You said earlier . . ."

"Something happened, like I said. I'll tell you at some point. One more question, though, okay?"

"Of course. What is it?"

"Remember when you came up for Abby's birthday and came to the hospital room the day you were leaving? Did you happen to talk to the patient's family after that?"

"Oh, yes, that nice man, his father, caught up to me at the elevator. We went down to the cafeteria together. But Greg, I swear, I wasn't giving him details about you. The only thing I said about you was that you were a wonderful doctor. It was just a friendly chat, trying to take his mind off his sick son, I think. He wanted to talk about me, not about his family, trying to distract himself. He was so worried."

House closed his eyes. "Did you happen to mention that you're seeing a psychiatrist?"

"I . . . yes, actually. I mentioned that one reason I was returning that day from my visit is that I had my psychiatrist's appointment the next day. I go on Thursdays, you know."

House was stunned. She just _mentioned _it, as she just asked for help in the airport, as if there were no stigma at all attached to being either mentally or physically crippled. "Did you happen to mention the name of your doctor?"

"Let me see. Yes, actually, I think I did. Oh, I remember now. He said he had a relative in Lexington who was unhappy with hers and wanted to pass the name along. But Greg, I swear, we weren't talking about you."

House opened his eyes again, staring at his lap, not meeting Jensen's gaze. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to meet Jensen's gaze again. How could the psychiatrist have just sat there and _taken_ all of that without getting angry at him? "I believe you, Mom." The phone beeped. "I'd better go, there's another call coming in, and I need to see who that is. I'll talk to you later. Bye." He hit the button on the phone. "Hello?"

It was Cuddy, and she sounded more shaken than he had ever heard her in his life. "Greg?"

He sat up straight, completely ignoring Jensen now. "Lisa? What's wrong?"

"You're with Jensen, right?"

"Yes, I'm with Jensen. _What's wrong?_"

She took a deep breath. "There are . . . two more things that have happened you need to know about. First, I'm still working out the extent of this, but a copy of the legal papers was sent in a wide distribution through interhospital mail. Not just to the board. At least some department heads got them. Your team got them. One was posted on the bulletin board in the main lounge and highlighted. I got that one down; I'm trying to find as many as I can and catch them."

_Everybody knows_. In that moment, his mind fell over the edge into the chasm he had tried subconsciously to protect himself from all afternoon. The refrain echoed against his skull as he tumbled over and over in free fall. _Everybody knows. Everybody knows. Everybody knows._

"Greg? Are you still there?"

He was literally starting to shake in the chair. "I . . . yes. . . I'm here."

"That's not all. Something else just happened, too." She hesitated.

"What else happened?"

"Dr. Hadley committed suicide."


	16. Chapter 16

Very short update, but beggars can't be choosers. I hadn't planned to break a chapter here, but it works okay. Next chapter will be events in and out of the hospital when they get back, follow up on Thirteen, and some Foreman. And yes, it's still Friday night. Poor House. Glad he's only a fictional character and can't sue me for harassment. Thanks for all the reviews!

(H/C)

House finished the conversation on autopilot. His mind wasn't paying attention to the words at all, rather fighting to block out the terrifying, resonating chorus of "everybody knows," and he also was suddenly overwhelmed with worry for Cuddy. He could hear in the way she forced herself to give a matter-of-fact delivery of events that she was actually extremely upset. Her hospital was under attack, too. The lawsuit and Thirteen's death - _Thirteen!_ - were assaults on her third baby. This was even worse than the assault on him. He could sense the worry and stress under her tone. She had said she was trying to track down the copies of the paperwork and catch those unread, and he was sure she meant that literally, personally going from office to office and inspecting in-baskets. All day since being served, he had been almost frantically focused on doing _something_, coming up with some task, first on revealing and attacking Jensen, and now that mission was suddenly replaced with a desire to get back to the hospital, to get back to Cuddy, to help her with the search so she wouldn't be doing it alone. Searching for paperwork copies was stressing her out. He could help her with that, at least. The reasoning seemed perfectly clear to him.

"I'll come back to the hospital, okay?" he said.

"Greg, wait a minute. You need to talk to Jensen about . . ."

"I'll come back to the hospital and help you. See you in a few hours." He stabbed at end, taking three tries because his hands were shaking, and then lurched to his feet and headed for the door.

He had completely forgotten about the other occupant of the room, and he was startled when a firm hand closed around his forearm, pulling him to a halt. "I'll drive," Jensen offered.

House shook his head vigorously. "I'm _fine_. Just need to get back."

"You aren't fine. Your pulse is up, breathing up, your hands are shaking, and your focus is anywhere but on your present surroundings. You don't need to be driving like this." Jensen had been unable to piece together House's half of the conversation to deduce what had happened, but watching House during that call had set off an entire chorus of alarm bells for the psychiatrist. Whatever had happened, it was even worse than before, and he thought House also was finally starting to truly react to the earlier implications he'd been blocking out.

"I am focused _perfectly well _on my present surroundings," House snapped.

"You left your cane beside my desk when you got up," Jensen pointed out.

House abruptly realized how precariously he was balanced, how much his leg was hurting, and that Jensen was not only restraining him but actually steadying him somewhat. The psychiatrist was on his right. The cane wasn't. He studied this anomaly for a moment, then turned his head, looking back. The cane was indeed propped forgotten on the edge of the desk. He had rushed right by it when he stood up and walked - _limped _- away.

"You aren't safe to drive right now," Jensen repeated. "Think about her and the kids, even if you aren't thinking about yourself. I've already had once when I let my favorite patient walk out of this office and drive away on a night you were in no condition to, and I failed to fully recognize it or attempt to intervene and drive you myself. I'm not going to raise that score to two." His grip was still firm on House's wrist, and he showed no inclination to let go any time soon.

House sighed. Much of that speech didn't even register through his overwhelming urgency to get back to help Cuddy, but Jensen's determination came across loud and clear. They were wasting time standing here. "You are a chauffeur, get it? You go where I say, when I say."

"Agreed." Jensen held out his hand, and House fumbled in his pocket for his car keys. Damn it, Jensen was right; his hands _were_ shaking. He would have had trouble hitting the ignition down in the parking lot. He handed the keys over. "Get your cane," Jensen said, letting go and not attempting to help House back to the desk. Instead, he circled it to his own side of the desk and took something out of one of the side drawers. House was too distracted to notice. He retrieved the cane, and together, they left the office at his fastest limp. Jensen tossed one comment over his shoulder to the startled secretary as they passed through the outer office. "Janice, please call Melissa and tell her an emergency has come up. Don't wait dinner for me. I'll call when I get a chance."

House didn't hear. His whole mind was locked desperately onto the goal of getting back to the hospital to help Cuddy, not leaving her to her paperwork quest alone. But over and around that thought hovered the action of Thirteen, and around it all rang the terrifying echo: _Everybody knows._

(H/C)

House sat in the passenger's seat of his car, staring out at the blurred, rainy landscape. His thoughts were a kaleidoscope.

Cuddy. Had to get back to Cuddy. She was stressing out on her legal paperwork hunt. Maybe he could at least do something about that. He could help her. It was his fault this case had blown up in her hospital, anyway.

Thirteen. He hadn't even thought of the implications of her being an equal target, lost in the attack on himself. He had thought she'd get mad at Foreman; he had never thought that she might take the quick exit off life's highway. But thinking back on how she had come to his office that night, how she had insisted she would leave work completely once concerned about her competency on the job, he wondered if he should have seen it coming. Should he have gone to check on her after getting the papers instead of going to the roof to think? He had been too lost in his own train wreck to fully realize that she was trapped in the same one.

Should he have switched up the team more on that case? He had made a definite choice to have Thirteen be the one interacting with the family, even after noticing her worsening symptoms himself. He was the one who had offered her to Patrick as a co-target.

Jensen. What on earth was going to happen with Jensen? He couldn't believe the man would want to keep him as a patient after House had shown his true colors and finally been as much of a jackass as he was to the general public. A totally wrong jackass, at that.

_Everybody knows_.

Was Patrick right? _Was _he just imagining things? Had a chance physical resemblance to his father's hands led him to manufacture all the other fears?

Had he in fact been unable to focus on his job on that case? Would Christopher have lived if he had done better?

Round and round in a spinning vortex in his mind until he was nearly dizzy.

Ever present was the soundtrack of Jensen. The psychiatrist was driving him nuts. Jensen seemed to have adopted a plan to never just leave House alone and let him think on the drive, and instead he kept up a quiet, polite, but persistent string of questions and comments, slowly extracting the story of further events. House answered him automatically without hearing all of it, his attention elsewhere, the psychiatrist an annoying mosquito in the background, but one that was right in his ear and refused to go away. Couldn't the man just shut up? Weren't chauffeurs supposed to be quiet? He needed to _think_ here. Jensen had always had a gift for knowing when to push and when to back off, but tonight, he seemed to have forgotten the second half of that equation.

House responded absentmindedly to another comment from the driver's seat, his focus elsewhere.

Cuddy. She was stressing out over her hospital. He had to help her.

Thirteen. How had she done it? With a gun? Foreman probably had a gun.

Foreman. How would he react when he realized he himself had given away his girlfriend's confidential information?

Or was House in fact at root responsible? He had kept her there in that room in the forefront of that case. He should have switched the team up more. He had even deliberately used Thirteen after the CPS confrontation as a buffer for family interactions because they clearly hated him.

Had he been thinking clearly medically? Was it his fault?

_Everybody knows._

He brought down his right hand suddenly, digging fiercely into his thigh as if trying to deepen the scar, fingernails felt even through the pants. The pain slammed through him, and he rejoiced in it as the mental whirlwind retreated for a moment.

"Stop that!" Jensen's fingers closed around his wrist again, and he looked up in surprise. He hadn't been aware that they had stopped, but the car was pulled to the side of the road, and Jensen was leaning across the front seat. "It doesn't work. You can't replace pain."

"Like hell you can't. It works!" For a moment, at least. The leg was still annoyed, but the mental cyclone was coming back already. He tried to move, to administer another dose, but Jensen had him firmly.

"It only postpones it. Doesn't replace it." The psychiatrist let go with one hand long enough to dig in his pocket and pull out a bottle he had retrieved from his desk earlier. He opened it and offered a pill to House. "Take that."

House studied it. Ativan. "Like _that_ doesn't just postpone pain?"

"Take it," Jensen insisted. House glared at him. "We're sitting on the side of the highway wasting time," the psychiatrist pointed out.

With a sigh, House took the pill, holding it under his tongue. Jensen released him. "Hurting yourself doesn't work, Dr. House," he insisted.

House turned away to stare out the window at the rainscape. The pill gradually dissolved under his tongue, and he could feel the effects slow his pulse a little and steady his hands. He hadn't been conscious of his heartbeat being fast, but he did feel a little calmer. Jensen was still watching him. "We're wasting time," House reminded him.

"Keep your hands where they belong, or we'll waste more," the psychiatrist pointed out. He turn around to face the windshield again and put the car back in gear.

House stared out the window and sighed. Why couldn't the man understand that he needed to be left alone?

_Everybody knows._

He shivered.


	17. Chapter 17

Thanks for the reviews! House's Friday night from hell continues . . . Kutner's quote remembered is from a poem by Rudyard Kipling, one of my favorite English poets. I apologize for any inaccuracies in the Foreman-Thirteen apartment. I remember a big living room but not much else. Wasn't paying much attention. House's apartment set is SO much more interesting to dissect.

(H/C)

Cuddy was nearly frantic as she continued her paperwork quest through the hospital. She had _hated_ having to tell House, but she knew that delaying the news about Thirteen far from the point she'd gotten it would be even worse. Plus the news of the paperwork spread, of course. She could have cheerfully murdered Chandler in front of witnesses at this point. She had been relieved at how well House was handling the lawsuit earlier, but she knew what an additional blow these two events would be. She'd debated with herself five minutes after hearing about Thirteen before picking up the phone, but actually, working it out, she realized that he should be only a little bit into his session with Jensen. Probably, there was no better time than while he was with the psychiatrist to tell him, and then Jensen could take over on initial response and spend the rest of the time doing emergency care. The psychiatrist was her best ally in this battle.

That had been the hopeful plan, anyway, the best her reeling mind could come up with. But House had clearly switched off onto a tangent, gotten some idea in his head about "helping" (with what?), and left only partway through his appointment. She was too worried to call him back, afraid she'd distract him even more on the road, but half of her was cringing with each siren heard below in the parking lot as an ambulance pulled in. She hoped he would make it back here all right.

With another stab of worry, she looked at her watch. He should have been back by now, assuming he was speeding, which was probably a safe assumption. She'd really expected him to be here fifteen minutes ago.

Was he okay? All right, ridiculous question, but was he as okay as he could have been at the moment? Was he safe, at least?

And what on earth did he mean by coming back to "help?"

Her body continued working while her mind was on autopilot. It had been Kutner who came to find her and report the mass paperwork distribution. His boyish, eager face seemed to have aged fifteen years and been shocked out of cheerfulness as he came to the door of her office. Cuddy, having just finished a session with the board in which she tried her best to focus on the legal and medical aspects and ignore allegations, without confirming them, of House's history as irrelevant, had barely had time to sigh and rake her hands through her hair.

_"Dr. Cuddy?" _

_She looked up, surprised at the tone. Kutner's enthusiasm was notorious, but his voice was absolutely flat. "What is it, Dr. Kutner?" _

_"We just . . . um . . . picked up our interhospital mail, me and Foreman and Taub." Doctors without their own personal office had a wall of mail slots in the main physicians' lounge. "We were going by the main lounge on the way to the lab to see how Thirteen was coming with the tests, and . . .um . . . "_

_Cuddy sighed. "Was there something you found wrong in the lounge, Dr. Kutner?" _

_He extended the copy, and her face went absolutely white, what little color left after today's events draining out of it. _

_"You all got a copy of that?" _

_"Not just us. I didn't open other people's mail, but judging from the same manila envelope, looks like . . . um . . . most people did." _

_She hit her feet instantly. "Damn. Everybody?" She looked at her watch again. Late Friday afternoon. Hopefully most staff would be too busy wanting to leave for the weekend to pick up mail on the way out. She would intercept what she could. Pure fury at Chandler blazed through her. The board she had expected to get copies. But the whole hospital physician staff? "Thank you, Dr. Kutner." She reached out to take it from him, just double checking against hope that it wasn't in fact something else entirely, and she got another jolt. In this copy, the relevant lines about House and Thirteen were highlighted. _

_Kutner was still standing there, having missed the cue for his dismissal. "Um, Foreman went to find Thirteen. Taub just shrugged and went on to the patient. But Dr. Cuddy?" _

_She was most of the way to the door. "What is it, Dr. Kutner?" she asked impatiently, her fingers itching to find and retrieve the copies. _

_"Um . . .is it . . .is it true?" Kutner simply couldn't help asking, even in the face of her obvious anger. _

_She spun around and glared at him. "Whether it is or isn't is none of your business. Is that understood?" _

_He wilted. He was taller than she was, though not as tall as House, but she towered over him at the moment in that office. "Yes." He swallowed, suddenly remembering a quote from a poem in school as he studied her glittering eyes. The female of the species is more deadly than the male. "Absolutely clear. Yes. Right. Well, I . . . um . . . need to get back to work." He spun around and headed for the door at his fastest walk. _

_"Dr. Kutner?" He turned back to face her, one hand on the door knob. "Thank you for bringing this matter which is none of your business to my attention." He nodded and left the office. _

Close inspection of the main lounge revealed not only 24 copies in the mail slots but the one posted on the main bulletin board, which she ripped down viciously, sending the push pin flying across the room. Since then, she had conducted a search of every private office in the hospital, plus the nurses' lounge, plus department lounges, plus the main mail room. Her total was up to 49, all in manila envelopes. That absolute snake! Her hands nearly shaking, she was standing in her office now, feeding them with satisfaction to the shredder. And did she really think this was going to recan this can of worms? Word was obviously out anyway. She couldn't possibly find all of them. She looked at her watch again and pursed her lips. _Greg_, she thought, _if you get in a car accident and get killed,, I'll never forgive you. Do you hear?_

The office door opened behind her, and she spun, half in hope that it was him and half trying to hide the shredder and her diminishing pile in case it was somebody else. It was House, to her relief, but looking at him didn't reassure her much. As he came across the room toward her, he looked . . . _fragile_. Something about him reminded her of a glass with a spiderweb of cracks already visible, not yet broken but ominously close to it. "Greg." She came around the desk and wrapped him in an embrace, but he pushed back, studying her face anxiously.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She stared at him. "Am _I _okay?"

"You were . . . on the phone, you were stressing out, I could tell. About the paperwork and the hospital. I can help search the rest of it. You don't have to do it yourself."

She gripped him by both arms, feeling that he was trembling again slightly, not visibly but definitely present. "Wait a minute. You think I was stressing out about the _hospital_?"

His blue eyes looked confused - and also with shadows of horror gathering around the edges. He isn't thinking straight, she realized. "Weren't you?" he asked.

"I was worried about you. Not the hospital."

He automatically deflected away from a statement of concern or esteem of him, an action so characteristic that it was oddly comforting just now. "But the hospital being under attack too just makes it worse."

"Greg." Her voice was gentle, although she wanted to bang his head into the wall to knock some sense into him. "At this moment, I don't give a damn about the hospital being under attack." She heard a movement and looked past him, for the first time seeing Jensen standing in the doorway. House felt her surprise and turned to follow her gaze.

"He drove me back."

Relief washed through her. Jensen had followed him when he left the office. They had taken so long getting here because a rational, composed, non-speeding person had been behind the wheel. "Thank you," she said, with a world of gratitude behind it.

"You're welcome," the psychiatrist replied. He looked worried himself, an odd expression for him.

House had turned back to her. "You really weren't worried about all those papers going around your hospital?"

"No. I was worried about you." She could still feel the faint tremors sweeping through him. The longer she was with him, the more worried she got. He didn't feel right to her.

He looked away, again unable to meet her eyes and accept that he was her primary interest, valued beyond the others. "Tell me about Thirteen," he said softly.

She sighed. "I was looking for copies when I was called to the ER. She must have left the lab and gone home after she was served. Foreman went home and found her."

"How did she do it?" His tone was almost conversational, but she could still feel the flood of emotion in him that he wasn't allowing to reach his voice.

"Are you sure you . . . " She hesitated.

"How did she do it?" he repeated, suddenly much louder.

"With a gun. In the head."

"And she was brought into the ER? Still alive?"

"No. But Foreman insisted. He was still trying CPR when the ambulance arrived, even though she was clearly dead."

"Where is Dr. Foreman now?" Jensen put in from the doorway.

"I'm not sure. He just disappeared after the ER declared her DOA. Do you think he might . . ." She was afraid to finish the sentence. Had she let another doctor head for his death in her overwhelming concern for House?

"No," House said firmly, actually sounding more like himself than at any point so far. "He would never kill himself. He either got mad and went out to break something or decided to get drunk."

"Somebody probably should find him," Jensen suggested.

House spun and wavered on the leg, not noticing as Cuddy steadied him. "Why don't you go find him, then, and pester _him_ for a while?"

Cuddy blinked. She didn't think she'd ever heard House snap at Jensen before. The stress of tonight clearly was getting to him. Just then, her cell phone rang, and she pulled it out. New guilt and forgotten responsibility stabbed her. "Marina? I'm so sorry, I got tied up at the hospital with an emergency, and I totally forgot to call . . . yes, I remember . . . no, she's out of town . . . yes. Okay. I'm sorry. I'll be home in 15 minutes, okay?" She shook her head as she hung up. "I totally forgot about the girls. Babysitter is out of town, and Marina can't stay much later. Let's go home, Greg. I was going to finish shredding this stack of paperwork, but I'll lock it up and do it tomorrow."

"I'll finish it," he volunteered instantly. "You're sure you're just worried about me? Nothing else?"

How many times would it take to get through to him? "Yes, I'm worried about you. Not that that's a 'just.' Wait a minute, Greg. What are you thinking?" She could see thoughts spinning a mile a minute behind his eyes.

"Go on home to the girls, Lisa, and I'll finish shredding your papers and meet you there in a little while."

"What are you thinking of doing?"

"Shredding papers, like I said. Marina has to leave, remember?"

Cuddy wondered if Jensen would assist her in physically dragging him out of the hospital. She looked back at the psychiatrist, who was studying House intently. He still looked worried. "Greg, come on. I have to leave."

"But we really shouldn't leave this stack unshredded. You realize that yourself. Go on; I'm fine. I'll meet you at home in a little while." He was looking at - and through - the papers.

Cuddy looked at Jensen. A silent question, a silent answer, a silent request, and a silent promise were exchanged. "Okay, Greg, but promise me one thing. All right?"

"What's that?" His tone was distracted. His mind wasn't on shredding paperwork.

"Let Jensen drive."

That jolted him for a minute. "I'm okay, Lisa. I was just worried about you being here stressing over the hospital. I'm fine now."

_Bullshit_, she thought. He wasn't anywhere close to it. But he had a point about the paperwork; she had wanted to finish shredding it. "If you don't promise me that, I'm not leaving you," she said firmly, chin up.

"Marina has to go."

"I'll ask her to bring the girls here, and all of us can wait while you shred paperwork."

He gauged the sincerity in her tone and sighed. "Okay, I'll let Jensen drive."

"Thank you." She kissed him, then left reluctantly, eyes meeting Jensen's again on the way by, silently handing over custody for the moment..

Once the office door closed behind her, Jensen came forward. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Shred paperwork, like I said," House responded, already starting to feed the machine.

"And then what?"

"I want to see Thirteen."

"That is a very bad idea, Dr. House. She's dead. Seeing her won't make any difference."

House spun around, anger flaring up again, and his leg wobbled. He caught himself on the edge of Cuddy's desk chair. "You think it's better to _imagine_ it? Because I will. I need to have the facts. I'll imagine it 50 different ways. I'll only have to see it once."

Jensen sighed. "I . . . guess I can see the validity of that, but wouldn't reading the ER report work just as well?" He wasn't totally convinced that this was solely a fact-finding mission and not a guilt fest.

"A picture is worth a thousand words," House reminded him. "Now for the first time tonight, would you just _shut up_?"

Jensen stepped up beside him. "I'll shred the papers, if you like. We'll get done faster."

House was about to ask why on earth Jensen would get done faster when he followed the psychiatrist's gaze and realized that his hands were still trembling a bit. Suddenly exhausted, emotionally and physically, he stepped back and stood quietly watching as Jensen shredded the copies.

(H/C)

Thirteen had shot herself in the temple. Obviously close contact, a small caliber pistol but held practically to her head. Flash powder burns surrounded the small hole, and blood had run down over the side of her face. Her eyes were closed. House wondered if her hand had been shaking there at the end, and if so, if it had been due to Huntington's or to last-minute nerves. Had she hesitated on the brink of oblivion, or had she just calmly, smoothly fallen over it?

Should he have let her off Christopher's case when he first noticed her hands trembling that morning? Was it in fact his fault? Did she think it was his fault? Had she blamed him as much as Foreman for the public exposure of her disease?

"Let's go," Jensen suggested, right at his elbow. The psychiatrist had insisted on following him clear into the morgue, over House's protests.

House pulled the sheet back up over her, taking an extra moment to carefully smooth it out, blocking the blood and the wound from view. "Okay," he agreed, and Jensen felt a surge of relief. He'd already suggested leaving four previous times, but House had just wanted to stand there staring at the body of his subordinate. "But we're not going home yet," House continued.

"Where else do you want to go?"

"Her place. I want to see if there's a suicide note."

"That's an even worse idea. That one would accomplish nothing."

"It would tell me why!" House insisted, his rising voice echoing off the stainless steel fixtures in the morgue.

"No, it wouldn't." Jensen was trying to keep being the level voice of reason, but it was getting more difficult the further tonight went. "If she left a note - and many suicides do not - it would only tell you what she _thought_ was her reason. That might not have been a true reflection of the situation. Safe to say that the majority of people about to commit suicide are not thinking straight. But no matter what she wrote or did not write, you will find a way to make it incriminate yourself. Seeing words, whatever they are, will make no difference to you."

"Then give me my car keys, and you can go wash your hands of it."

"You promised Dr. Cuddy you'd let me drive," Jensen reminded him. He had no intention of surrendering House's car keys tonight. He was sure the man already would have been in an accident on the way back from Middletown if he'd had the opportunity. His mind wasn't functioning well, but he thought that it was, a very bad combination.

House spun away, frustrated, and started to hit the autopsy table, but Jensen caught his hand and stopped him. "I'm not going to let you hurt yourself tonight, either," the psychiatrist said firmly. "Not physically, anyway."

"I'm not _trying_ to using the gating mechanism, I'm just _pissed!_" House yelled. "You're worse than Wilson tonight. What's wrong with you?" Jensen didn't rise to the challenge, simply watching him steadily as he had all evening. The man had even followed him into the bathroom on the way down to the morgue. "To hell with you. I'll take a cab," House said, scrambling for an alternative route to Thirteen's apartment.

"And Dr. Cuddy - and the girls - will meet you there," Jensen replied, not backing down.

House pulled away to pace a quick, limping circle. "Okay, damn it. You can drive. But we're going to that apartment. You agreed you're a chauffeur tonight. Where I want, when I want. Remember?"

When he'd made that statement, Jensen had simply been trying to keep House from killing himself by driving away from the office in that state, and the psychiatrist would have agreed to nearly any conditions in the heat of that moment to get possession of those keys. But he would hold to it now. "All right," he agreed. "We'll go to her apartment. But I'm coming in with you."

House gave an exaggerated sigh and turned to limp toward the door. Jensen followed him, brushing one hand against his pocket to ensure that he still had the bottle of Ativan.

(H/C)

There was no suicide note, but there was a copy of the legal papers. Judging from the bloodstains, Thirteen had come home, put the papers on the nightstand, laid herself out on the bed, and then shot herself. House studied the whole scene from every possible angle, trying to ignore the mosquito of Jensen's presence in the background. He came to a stop again beside the nightstand, looking again at the papers that he could have quoted by heart at this point. They named him as well as her. They referred to him as her supervisor and responsible for her actions. Had she been remembering his insistence that she deal with the family on the case? Had she been thinking of him and questioning his medical judgment on that case as she pulled the trigger? Had she blamed him?

Jensen touched his arm. "Dr. House?"

House shook his head. "Let's go home," he said, resigned, the annoyance giving way to utter weariness. Jensen had been right. Note or no note, it didn't make any difference.

They were just entering the living room when the main door opened and Foreman lurched in, supported and steered by Kutner. The four men came to a startled stop and faced each other. "Well, 'fit isn' the man 'mself," Foreman slurred. "The (hic) great Grer . . . Gwe . . . Gregwy Housh, MD."

"What stinking, back street bar did you crawl out of?" House asked.

Kutner and Jensen, who knew each other from Cathy's case and then the events of a year ago, exchanged a look of pure sympathy. "I'll go make a pot of coffee, okay?" Kutner suggested. "Why don't you sit down here for a minute while it's getting ready?" He tried to guide Foreman into an armchair. Foreman propped himself against it but stayed on his feet. Kutner made sure he was stabilized and then headed for the kitchen, and Jensen peeled off for a sotto voce consultation halfway there.

"Did you find him, or did he call you?" If Foreman had called, he still had some vestige of rational thought floating in the sea of alcohol.

"Found him. He'll regret it tomorrow, but it's better than a lot of other things he could have done. Is House okay?"

Jensen looked back at his favorite patient. "What would you expect?"

Kutner shook his head. "Poor guy. I can't imagine what tonight has been for him." Kutner went on into the kitchen.

Foreman was still continuing his monologue behind them. "Housh. Great Dr. Housh. You come to goat over the scene?"

"Goat over the scene? Do you mean _gloat_?"

"Yeah, goat. Cause 'syour fault, y'know."

"Wait a minute," Jensen objected. "That's hardly a fair assessment, and you're in no condition to judge things right now."

"Stop soun'n lika shrink. He your shrink, House? Great Housh, needza shrink. So, j'your dad really . . . uh . . . wha'dit say? Nails. Nailed to the floor. What'dja say to him, make'm do that?"

House was visibly trembling now, fighting back the memory of the nails, the smell of carpet glue. "I . . . didn't . . ." he started.

"That's enough," Jensen said firmly. "We need to get going, and you need to drink some coffee and sober up. Dr. Kutner is making some. Why don't you sit down to wait for it before you fall down?"

"Why yuh here, an'way?" Foreman asked, looking around suspiciously. "Wanna goat? See wha' you done?" He pointed toward House. "She . . . trushted you. You skewed . . . sklewed . .. sklewed up t'case. Cou'n't tink right. Cause a your Dad. S'your fault."

"We're leaving," Jensen said firmly. He gave up on stopping Foreman and turned back to House, several steps away. "Come on, Dr. House. You don't need to hear this; he's clearly not thinking straight. Let's go, now."

"Does! S'your fault. Grea' Housh. Jus' . . pashe . . . pathe. . . pathetic. Y'killed her."

Jensen was almost back to House, who was rooted to the spot simply listening, fighting the memories. At that moment, the psychiatrist heard a surge of motion behind him, and in the next, Foreman lurched past him on an unsteady but fairly aimed course, launching himself straight at House, his fist slashing out with fury, connecting straight across his boss's right thigh.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Friday night is *almost* over. For those who wondered, which several have, Wilson will re-enter the story Saturday. He's at an oncology conference, which was mentioned, but it was a while back. I realize it feels like ages have passed, but the last several chapters have all taken place just in a few hours. It had to be Jensen with House Friday night, though. Honestly, Wilson could never have handled this night psychiatrically speaking, keeping House close enough to keep him safe without making him totally lose it and boil over. Wilson's not as talented at emotional management dexterity as Jensen, which makes perfect sense, as that's Jensen's profession and not his. Besides, Wilson, while on a far less detailed or central plot, is getting into his own trouble at the moment, which I did already set up somewhat to be coming. Wilson _was _there all night the night Christopher died, when House just needed a friend. Also more of the team in brief snippets coming up. House is always the main character, but we get brushes of the others.

(H/C)

House crumpled to the floor as the world exploded in pain around him. He tried to curl as he fell, protecting the leg from further blows, but his body almost responded with delayed reaction, his nerves too overwhelmed by sensation to move. A kick landed, but it was arrested in progress, and then Foreman was gone. He heard Jensen above him; the psychiatrist had obviously grabbed Foreman and was pulling him away. Kutner's steps and voice came rushing from the kitchen. House ignored the confrontation, trying to surface through the rough waves of pain, trying to remind himself to breathe.

A hand touched his shoulder. "Dr. House?" Jensen's voice was agitated enough that it pulled House's eyes back open.

"'mokay," he managed. He tried to pull himself into a sitting position on the floor, his back against the couch. Jensen helped him. Then the psychiatrist's hands went to his leg, feeling along it, and House flinched sharply under the pressure. 'Don't," he gasped.

Jensen hesitated, pulling back, then looked up. Kutner was still physically restraining Foreman at the other side of the room, but Foreman, even while still spitting out slurred accusations, obviously was rapidly feeling the increasing influence of gravity, threatening to become a spineless, drunken puddle on the floor. Jensen got to his feet and crossed over to grasp the neurologist firmly on the other side. "I'll get him to bed. See about Dr. House." Kutner, after all, practiced medicine, not psychiatry, and Jensen remembered being impressed with how he had gotten House to accept medical care after the diagnostician had sprained his ankle.

Kutner nodded. "Right." He quickly let go and crossed the room to drop to his knees beside his boss. Foreman tried to follow him and was only saved from total collapse by Jensen. Still muttering curses, he lurched along toward the hall with Jensen firmly steering.

House flinched as Kutner reached for the leg. "Don't . . . put pressure," he snapped out. Kutner eyed him for a second, assessing, then very gently probed the extremity through the jeans. The muscle was quivering under his hand. He moved to House's feet, removing his shoe and sock and checking distal pulses, also running his hands over the ankle and then the left leg, making sure the injury was confined to the thigh and that House hadn't hurt himself going down.

"How bad is it?" Kutner asked, studying House's face for visual clues to add to the verbal response.

"Just bruised it. I'll be okay." He sounded breathless. Kutner replaced his shoe and sock, then moved back up to mid level and took his pulse, and House rolled his eyes. "I'll be okay. He hit my leg, not my wrist." His voice sounded a bit stronger there, more of the usual snark, but his eyes looked wounded far beyond physically. Kutner looked away, granting House privacy. Looking at his eyes right now was like looking at somebody who had been thrust into the middle of a crowd naked.

Jensen returned to the living room, coming over to kneel down on the other side. "Foreman down for the count?" Kutner asked.

The psychiatrist nodded. "He passed out right as we got to the bed. Luckily they have a spare room." Waking up after sleeping in the still bloodstained sheets from your girlfriend's suicide would be tough on anybody, even without a hangover. He looked at Kutner. "Somebody had probably better stay with him tonight to make sure he doesn't aspirate and stays stable." The unspoken question was clear. Jensen would much rather stick with House, but if the acute medical needs were worse than the mental ones, he was willing to stay here and let Kutner take over with the diagnostician.

Kutner considered it and took House's pulse again. "Seriously, House, do you think you're okay?"

House nodded. "I'm _fine._" He ruined the effect by flinching as his leg tightened up again. The pain tonight was going to be murderous.

"Maybe you should go to the ER to get checked out," Jensen suggested.

"NO!" Defiance carried him at least a quarter of the way to his feet before his body rebelled. Jensen and Kutner quickly reacted, catching him and hauling him up the rest of the way, keeping a steadying grip on his elbows. "No ER," House insisted. His eyes had closed again as he got up, and he opened them to look at the two men studying him as if he were their whiteboard. "No ER," he repeated firmly. "It's going to hurt, but I'll live. Cuddy has half a pharmacy at home. One of the so-fun fringe benefits that she signed up for along with life with me."

Jensen looked over at Kutner, obviously deferring. Kutner considered it, then nodded. "He's going to need some extra meds, antispasmodics. But probably, aside from pain management, there's no real reason to go to the ER. It's going to hurt, but I don't think he's risking more damage. Cuddy can keep an eye on things, and she could call an ambulance if she had to later."

"I'm here," House reminded them. "It's MY decision. And my decision, as I said, is NO." He started to take a dramatic, decisive step forward, then realized that his cane was still on the ground. So much for emphatic gestures of independence. Who was he kidding anyway? He was pathetic. A kid could have pushed him over right now.

Jensen bent down to retrieve the cane and handed it to him. "I'll take Dr. House home if you'll stay here," he said to Kutner. Kutner nodded, unable to help wishing he could stick with House, too, as his face clearly expressed, but resigning himself. Somebody had to look after Foreman.

House took a step forward, testing. The leg stopped to vote on the matter, deciding to stay up, but it was a close vote with a recount. Jensen and Kutner hovered on either side in safety position as he painfully hobbled to the apartment door. House would have snarled at them if he hadn't truly been scared himself he was at risk of doing a face plant.

Once he had maneuvered himself into the car outside, he nodded to Kutner. "Better get back up there before Dr. Mandango chokes. Have fun facing the hangover tomorrow." He was trying to sound his usual self; he only succeeded in sounding shaky. Kutner put one hand on his forearm, not saying anything, just resting it there for a moment, then let go and carefully shut the passenger's door.

Jensen started the car. "How do I get to your house?" he asked. House gave him the first couple of streets, then waited for a bunch of platitudes about how none of this was really his fault; Jensen had been beyond annoying in his persistence tonight. The pep talk never came. For the first time since that horrible interrupted session in Jensen's office, the psychiatrist completely left him alone. He closed his eyes in gratitude, one hand resting lightly on his leg.

Jensen was actually extremely concerned and would have loved to continue efforts at psychiatric emergency first aid, but he could tell from the lines on House's face just how much he was hurting right now. Remembering when he had burned his arm in childhood how much he had wished the world would just shut up and go away to let him curl up in a ball, remembering how much conversation had been not only annoying but had taken badly needed strength away from battling the pain, he tried to keep talk now to the minimum required. This wasn't the time for anything more. Hopefully tomorrow, but for tonight, they had passed the point of any possible psychiatric effectiveness. He merely asked for an update on directions a few times, and House would give him the next few steps.

Finally, the car pulled into the driveway. The living room lights were on; Cuddy was waiting up for House. Jensen switched the car off. "I'll go get a hotel room somewhere," he offered. He wasn't about to leave Princeton at the moment as things stood, but he had no place in the immediate first aid, both physical and emotional, between these two tonight and tomorrow morning.

House shook his head. "Stay . . . if you would. We've got room." Jensen looked at him, surprised by the obvious sincerity of the request. House still had his eyes shut, but he felt the look. "If she needs to talk to somebody tonight, I'm not sure how much use I'll be."

"Okay," Jensen agreed. He got out of the car and went around to the passenger's side. House had opened the door but was still in the process of trying to move his right leg out. Jensen watched, afraid of hurting him worse by helping. He'd support him walking in a minute, but the twisting turn required to get out of the car was something House could gauge much more accurately on his own. House finally finished the turn. At that moment, the leg locked up again, obviously going into full spasm, and House's whole body clenched in response. A moment later, a small trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He had bitten his lip. "Do you need something before you move?" Jensen asked once House's features had released slightly. He was afraid to try to massage the bruised thigh to relieve the cramp.

House shook his head. "Not going to get better until I'm down." He lurched up to his feet, unable to repress a brief cry at the motion. His leg completely buckled, and Jensen caught him, slinging House's right arm over his shoulder.

"Lean on me. Forget the cane," the psychiatrist told him. Together, they lurched up the path. The door opened before they were even a quarter of the way there.

"Greg!" Cuddy raced out, leaving the door standing open behind her. "My God, what happened?"

House didn't answer, being occupied with just staying vertical at the moment. "He got hit in the thigh," Jensen reported, keeping it as brief as he could for the moment. Details could wait; House needed acute treatment now.

Cuddy ducked under House's left arm, giving him a support on the other side. With House supported between the two of them, they painfully progressed into the house, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He hit the mattress with a whimper of repressed pain. Cuddy took one look at him, then immediately grabbed her keys from her purse and vanished into their private bathroom where a locked medicine cabinet (House had insisted on the lock when the girls started becoming mobile) held the emergency meds. She hurried back a minute later with bottles, alcohol pads, and two syringes. Diazepam was quickly injected. She drew up a large dose of morphine to chase it, but House opened his eyes. "Not . . . much," he forced between clenched teeth, his eyes on the bottle in her hand.

She hesitated. "Greg, you need this."

"Not much," he insisted. Cuddy might need to talk about things; her hospital was under attack, too, and that had to be bothering her in spite of her denials. He probably wouldn't be up to it, as he'd said to Jensen, but he wouldn't abdicate another responsibility without even trying to meet it. Besides, it seemed too easy on him to totally eliminate the pain. Thirteen had died tonight. Far too convenient to just hit the off switch and give himself a pass when it was at least partly his fault. He didn't deserve convenience. "Don't . . . make me . . ." His words were uneven. He was sweating.

Sometimes he could be the most infuriating man she had ever met. "Greg, we'll talk tomorrow. We don't have to talk through everything tonight."

"No. Maybe . . . diazepam . . . will be enough. Just a little morphine. _Please._" His eyes were closed again.

With a sigh, she returned part of the syringe's contents to the vial, then injected the rest. She knew it wouldn't be enough, not to get him through tonight, would only give him a brief respite and then dump him back into agony. He knew that, too, but he just had to prove it anyway. Stubborn idiot. She realized for the first time that Jensen had disappeared, although she didn't know when. She had been too locked up in concern for House. She stayed there feeling his pulse gradually decrease as she held his hand, seeing his face unclench. "Sorry," he mumbled, his final summary of his perceived failures today, as he fell over the edge into enforced rest. She cringed, but she didn't reply. Let him get what rest he could. What she had given him wouldn't last too long.

Standing up, she took his clothes off, taking a few minutes to thoroughly inspect the leg. A bright red mark stood out across the canyon of the scar, another lighter one just below it. Apparently two blows, extremely well aimed. The force behind them could have been worse, and the second one looked interrupted, but whoever had hit him had known exactly where to strike. Anger surged within her. She looked him over carefully, but there were no other injuries except for biting his lip. She checked the distal pulses, reassuring herself there wasn't a clot involved, then worked the covers out from under him and put them over the top. She took the bottles and empty syringes into the bathroom, then returned with a washcloth, carefully wiping the trickle of blood off his face. With him finally tucked in and at least momentarily at rest, she reluctantly headed out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her. One quick check in the nursery - Abby and Rachel were both peacefully asleep - and then she went back into the living room. Jensen was sitting in the chair, staring at and through the piano, his face more troubled than she had ever seen it. Cuddy dropped onto the couch facing him.

"Confidentiality be damned; I want some answers. Who attacked him?" she demanded, her eyes glittering like angry diamonds.

"Dr. Foreman," he stated. "Confidentiality actually doesn't apply with that. It hardly happened during a therapeutic session with me."

Her fists clenched in disbelief. "From his own _team_? I don't care how shitty his day has been; he's fired, soon as I can get to a phone."

"He was drunk. We went to the apartment he had shared with Dr. Hadley; Dr. House wanted to see if there was a suicide note. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wasn't listening. We were just about to leave when Dr. Kutner brought Dr. Foreman home from a bar. Dr. Foreman blamed Dr. House for Christopher's case and Dr. Hadley's suicide and attacked him. I was just a bit too late realizing what he meant to do to grab him in time."

Cuddy ground her teeth. "He actually blamed Greg for all of this? In so many words?"

Jensen nodded. "In no uncertain terms, including bringing up his past and blaming him for that. It was brutal."

She closed her eyes briefly. "The last thing he said to me a few minutes ago before he fell asleep was that he was sorry. How on earth are we going to undo all the damage here?" Jensen didn't reply, and she opened her eyes. "That wasn't a rhetorical question."

"I don't know," the psychiatrist said regretfully.

"You're _supposed_ to know," she insisted. "You're being paid to _help_ him." She regretted the words the moment she said them, remembering everything Jensen had done for them, including nearly singlehandedly holding it together for everybody during the days after House's injury and collapse a year ago. "I'm sor. . . I apologize." Somehow she suddenly felt as inadequate as House did about the capabilities of that word. "You've done so much for us. You were there for him tonight. I do appreciate it."

"It's okay," he replied. "You've had a horrible day yourself. Go ahead and snap at me; I can take it. But regarding Dr. House, I don't think it's possible to overstate the impact of today. This is going to take a long time to work through." And there was plenty Cuddy didn't know about today that _did _fall under confidentiality. Jensen bore no hard feelings, but he was afraid that House, with a while to think about it, might sabotage their therapeutic relationship because he couldn't forgive _himself_ and would project that to believing Jensen couldn't forgive him. The psychiatrist hoped he was wrong about that, but he was rather uneasy about how things stood between them. Giving House a chance alone to brood about the wrong accusations before they had really had a chance to finish resolving that disastrous session was one among the many things Jensen had hoped to avoid by sticking to him like glue tonight. The further the night had gone, though, the more events had exploded around them, leaving no opportunity when House would have been receptive to assure him that Jensen understood. He had been hoping that at the end, whenever House gave up his suicide detail quest and agreed to go home, he might be more open to reassurance on that drive, but Jensen had had no choice but to retreat to the sidelines now. He knew House's mind would be moving a lot faster than his body when he woke up, chewing through the day, including putting his own spin on that aborted session. Foreman's attack besides having physical consequences had been an epic of horrible timing.

"Thank you for driving him back from Middletown," Cuddy said. "I didn't have a chance to tell you at the hospital. I wanted to put off telling him about Dr. Hadley or the papers being delivered to everybody, but I thought it might help that he was with you when he found out. Besides, he never would have forgiven me for hiding it until later."

"He was very upset," Jensen said, "but I agree that you shouldn't have withheld information. I didn't think he was safe to drive back after that, though."

Cuddy sighed. "I know we've already torn up your day, but could you stick around Princeton a day or two? He's going to need you."

Jensen agreed with that assessment. He just hoped House would accept what he needed instead of crucifying himself for another perceived failure. "I'll stay for the moment," he replied.

"Thank you." Cuddy gave a relieved sigh. "We've got guest rooms. You're welcome to stay here."

"I'll try not to be in the way," Jensen promised. This would be a fine line to walk. They needed their privacy more than ever to get through this, but he thought House would need him, too. He definitely wouldn't make it an extended stay, not in their house. This was going to be a long-term process, unfortunately. Once he was sure House was acutely stable, he would back off a little while still monitoring, although he was sure sessions for the foreseeable future, whether by phone or personally, would be far more often than weekly. Of course, that was assuming House would let sessions continue.

"I _want _you in the way," Cuddy emphasized. "Until things are more stable." She only hoped that would be in the current decade. "By the way, do you know when he took any Vicodin last? I didn't think to ask him. It should have been a while, unless he already took the nighttime dose, but I don't want to overdose him tonight. What I gave him just now won't last long; he decided to get stubborn." She shook her head, frustrated all over again.

Jensen considered. "Actually, I don't think he's taken any of his prescriptions since he's been with me from 4:00 on. Not that I've seen, anyway, and I've been watching him pretty closely." He was sure, now that he thought about it. He hoped that had been due to distraction and overload rather than an effort on House's part to punish himself for perceived failures through pain.

Cuddy looked at her watch and frowned. "He should have definitely had one round of Vicodin since then and just about two by now."

Jensen shook his head. "I gave him 0.5 of Ativan about 5:15. That's it."

"He needed Ativan?"

"Yes. He's also tried to hurt himself at least once tonight. Possibly twice; I'm still not sure about the intentionality the second time. You'll need to watch out for that." He kept the statement to the medically relevant facts, but he had to tell her, for House's sake.

Cuddy sighed. "I actually thought he was taking it well at first. After he was first served this afternoon, he seemed to be handling it remarkably well."

Jensen shook his head. "The emphasis there is on seemed."

"I realize that now. He's not thinking clearly at all, is he?"

"No. Hopefully tomorrow will give him some breathing space to start to get a handle on things."

A muffled cry came from down the hall, Abby waking up. Cuddy stood up. "There's a guest room first door on the left in the hall. Food in the fridge if you're hungry. Thank you again for sticking with him tonight." She hesitated briefly, as if hoping for some further answer, but they both knew nothing would get resolved tonight. Cuddy headed down the hall at a motherly trot.

Left alone in the living room, Jensen sat for a long time studying the piano, trying to figure out the best approach to use with its master. He heard Cuddy go across from the nursery, heard the bedroom door shut again. She was with House, as she should be. Jensen was afraid they were in for quite a night, both physically and psychologically, and he hoped House would let Cuddy help him with it. Jensen's own differential on the piano didn't help clarify his thoughts much, and finally deciding he was also at the end of usefulness for today, he made himself a sandwich, called Melissa and Cathy, then turned off the lights, leaving the piano gleaming like an ebony star in the reflected light from outside, and went to bed.


	19. Chapter 19

We have sort-of-scheduled scheduled insanity set to kick off at work this week and extend into November. Don't always expect at least daily updates; I can almost guarantee you'll be disappointed. Assuming the server stays up, but I hope it does; while I love and appreciate reviews, they don't fill the fridge or put gas in the car. :) Thanks for reading, and Friday night is officially ending now.

(H/C)

Cuddy re-entered the bedroom after getting her daughters settled again. House was still asleep, but his face looked like a battlefield, pain and stress warring for dominion. With a sigh, she undressed and slid into bed beside him, automatically switching the monitor from the nursery on. She left the lamp on for the moment, wanting to monitor him for a while. She slid down next to her husband, and he shifted in his sleep, whimpering slightly and flinching away from the contact, even though she was on his good side. He shivered as if immersed in icy dreams, and Cuddy winced herself.

"Greg," she said softly, not trying to wake him up, just trying to reach him. "Greg, it's okay. It's just me. Nobody else." She wrapped her arms around him, holding him gently, trying not to trap him but letting her warm, solid presence sink in. "It's okay. I'm here." Slowly the shivering stopped. She studied his eyes, seeing the movement behind the lids. He was still somewhat sedated, and he wasn't yet locked into one of his classic nightmares that would wake him up with a jolt, but he was dreaming, and she could guess the content fairly well, in general anyway. She blinked back tears and held him closer.

Jensen wasn't sure how to proceed from tonight. _Jensen_. She'd grown so accustomed to thinking of the psychiatrist as ever-competent that his failure to provide an immediate strategy shook her, as irrational as that seemed. Of course, nobody knew everything. But seeing Jensen rattled as she'd never seen him before, not even during the crisis of a year ago, only reinforced her own sinking suspicions of the magnitude of tonight's impact on House.

"We'll get through this, Greg," she promised him fiercely. He had stopped trying to pull away from contact at least, and he was sleeping, if a bit restlessly, in her arms for the moment. She reached over to switch off the lamp; might as well try to get what sleep she could while he was. She knew that a long night was looming ahead and only hoped that his stubbornness would cave in to the inevitable before too many rounds of nightmares. She was exhausted herself, suddenly feeling like she had run a marathon tonight, but sleep seemed to take forever to come.

Only minutes later, it seemed, although longer by the clock, she snapped out of sleep, feeling House abruptly pull away from her. His whole body had tightened up as if joining his leg in a spasm, and he withdrew, doing his best to try to disappear into the pillows. Barely a sound escaped his lips, though. As usual at the worst, he grew even quieter, lips moving slightly but words nearly inaudible.

"Greg!" Cuddy gripped his arm, propping herself up on her elbow to face him. The rain had blown over, apparently, and moonlight spilled onto his face, dimly illuminating the room. The expression there was straight out of a horror movie. "Greg, wake up! Come on." Once again, he tightened up at the contact, shrinking into the pillow as if he wanted to disappear through the mattress, and the look of sheer terror on his face deepened. "Greg! It's just me. Come on, now, time to wake up."

She heard the abrupt catch of his breath, and she released him, backing off to avoid getting hit as he snapped nearly up to a sitting position in their bed, every muscle in his body firing at once. In the next second, he doubled over, both hands clutching his leg. Cuddy quickly jumped out of bed, running around to the other side, reaching for the leg. He cringed as her hands approached, but she carefully avoided the area crossed by the bruises, instead working diligently on the muscle above and below, kneading at the spasm. The entire leg was locked up; she had plenty to work on without manipulating the new injury. Finally, after several minutes, she could feel the leg starting to relax, could feel his breathing slowing down. House still had his head bowed, staring at his hands which had released their grip as she took over and now simply rested in his lap, clutching nothing. Cuddy waited for him to break the silence, but he outlasted her resolve.

"Is that better, Greg?"

"Yes. Thanks."

She kept up the massage. "Let's get you some more meds for tonight."

He pulled away from her hands again in silent refusal, and this time, as he was awake, she let him retreat physically for the moment. Gingerly, he swung his legs over, sitting on the side of the bed, looking around. "Where's my cane?"

Good question. She switched on the lamp, looking around herself. He'd presumably had it when he got out of the car, but Cuddy and Jensen had been almost completely supporting him by the time he'd reached the bedroom. It must have been lost somewhere along that journey. "Where do you think you're going? It's the middle of the night, Greg."

"To the bathroom," he said softly. "We cripples need them for short trips, too."

She was sorry she'd asked. She spared him the further humiliation of suggesting that she support him instead. "I'll go find it. Back in a minute."

He was still sitting on the side of the bed and was staring into space when she returned with the cane. "Did Jensen leave when you came to bed, Lisa?" he asked.

She extended the cane to him but was unable to resist hovering closely as he lurched to his feet. "No, he's in the guest room. I asked him to stay for tonight."

House nodded. Wincing, he limped toward their private bathroom, the limp far worse than usual, and Cuddy trailed him. She could hear his breath catch each time he stepped on the right leg. "I can manage this part alone. Been doing it for years," he snapped as he reached the toilet, and she turned away, retreating a few steps while keeping her ears and radar on full alert. House emerged a few minutes later and limped heavily back to the bed, sitting down. "Sorry for snapping at you," he mumbled.

"It's okay, Greg." She was careful not to help him lift the leg back into bed, although she wanted to.

"No, it's not. Nothing's okay." He lay back down but didn't close his eyes, instead conducting a differential on the ceiling.

Cuddy looked from him to the direction of the medicine cabinet. "Greg, you really need some more meds. Definitely the sleeping pill and probably some more morphine, too."

"And just drug it all away?" he asked. "Doesn't work. I wish it did. That used to be one of my coping strategies."

"I'm not suggesting it as a coping strategy; I'm suggesting it as a medical practitioner. You really need this tonight."

"What happened at the hospital?"

He didn't really want to talk about it, she could tell, and definitely didn't feel like talking about it. "We can go over everything tomorrow, Greg." His stubborn look didn't relent, and with a sigh, she came around and climbed into bed, snuggling down next to him again. At least he would let her hold him without initially cringing away while he was awake. "I talked to a couple of board members, telling them the facts of the case were what mattered and that you hadn't screwed up on it. Legally, we can win this. Then Kutner discovered the mass distribution of the paperwork, and I was hunting down copies when the call came about Dr. Hadley. But it was you I was worried about. Not the hospital."

He didn't reply that he was perfectly fine, which worried her even more. Not that she would have believed him, but no automatic deflection was a disappointment. His eyes were drifting off into their own focus again, and she squeezed his arm, reminding him of her presence. "I'm okay, Greg," she assured him. "I just wish this weren't happening for your sake."

"Are the girls okay?"

"Yes. They wondered where you were, though." He flinched, perceiving it as another failure of the evening rather than a reminder of his support system, and she tossed a mental slap at herself. She had to be careful. He was so raw right now. She settled for just physically comforting him, pulling him closer. He shivered again, not from phantom ice this time but from emotion. "It's okay, Greg," she whispered. "We're all still here, and we're all going to be here all the way through. Nothing's ever going to change that, not Chandler, not anybody."

His shoulders were shaking more strongly, and he choked back a sob. She pulled him even tighter, feeling the wetness growing along her own shoulder, just holding him. "I'm sorry," he managed after several minutes.

Cuddy forced herself not to snap at him. "You have nothing to apologize for, Greg."

"Putting you and the girls through this."

"You aren't putting us through anything. Chandler is. None of this is your fault." She couldn't see his eyes right now, with his face hidden against her shoulder, but she felt skepticism radiating off him. Words weren't going to be enough here, but she couldn't think how else to convince him. He stayed hidden against her, clearly avoiding eye contact, and she allowed him the dodge for the moment. Slowly his breathing stabilized and the fine tremors through his shoulders ceased. Her skin was still wet, but she didn't care. She simply held him, as if she might have held and comforted the girls, and after what seemed an eternity, the pattern of his breathing told her he had fallen back into sleep.

For the moment. His sleep was still restless in her arms, occasional whimpers of pain and helpless protest escaping him, and another major nightmare shattered their rest later, then another after that.

The clock read 4:35. Cuddy straightened up from working out the spasms in his leg once more, flexing her aching hands. "Greg, _please_ take the meds," she begged him.

He studied her. "I can go sleep in the other spare room if you want. You aren't getting much sleep like this."

"You really think I'd sleep better totally away from you?" she snapped, exhaustion and worry overcoming gentleness for the moment. He flinched and looked away. Yes, he really did. She sighed. "I'm not complaining, Greg. But we aren't going to be fit for anything tomorrow either if we keep on like this. You haven't even had the half dose of the sleeping pill you usually take, and you need the full one tonight, plus some extra pain meds besides. It isn't weakness to give your body the rest it needs. This is insane. I don't know if you're trying to punish yourself or what, but listen to your own medical judgment. Neither one of us is going to get any rest worth having tonight without it."

He sighed, shoulders drooping. "I'm not just an addict who can't cope with things," he insisted.

_"Just a weakling,_" John reminded him, and House shivered again.

Cuddy kissed him, lingering a bit, more in affirmation than passion. "You aren't just an anything. But _please_ take the meds. If you won't for yourself, do it for me, okay?"

He nodded after a moment, his expression defeated, and she quickly retrieved the bottles, grateful how extremely effective the sleeping medication was for him. He only accepted a regular dose of Vicodin with it, but at least he would be soundly out for several hours. After he'd taken the pills, she slid back into bed, holding him once more.

"Everybody was watching," he said, barely audibly, as she felt his muscles start to forcibly relax.

"Watching? You mean in your dreams?"

He nodded. "Dad was . . . pushing me down the stairs. And everybody was watching. Nobody did anything. They were all just watching me fall . . . and shaking their heads." Pity written large across every face, as well as confirmation. He was just a weakling after all.

Cuddy flinched, even though she was glad he was sharing something with her. "I'd better not have been there. If you ever put me into dreams with your father, I get to throttle the bastard. Understood?"

He grinned weakly. "Yes, your majesty." His eyelids fell, and she leaned over to kiss him.

"Good night, Greg." He was finally sound asleep, and she was thankful that he couldn't feel the wetness against his own shoulder as she held him and cried. Finally, tears and worry yielded to exhaustion, and she felt herself growing drowsy. She reached over to switch off the lamp she had switched on again to get the meds, but then she hesitated, looking at his face.

House was sound asleep now, but the lines of pain were still deeply carved there. She took his pulse - rather fast - and then reached over to touch his leg, feather light fingers against the scar. He whimpered softly and pulled away. Her conscience assaulted her as she remembered all the times in years gone by when she had questioned the extent of his pain, when she had even given him a placebo. No psychosomatic component was possible in sound sleep. This was pure physical pain from his leg, and on some deep level, he was still feeling it tonight even through the sleeping pill.

She couldn't stand it anymore. She slipped out of bed and made another trip to the medicine cabinet, getting the sustained-release morphine. With a careful calculation of what all he had had already tonight, she gave him as much as she thought was safe, and then she held herself awake for a little while longer, monitoring his pulse and breathing, watching with satisfaction as those pain lines smoothed out on his face. The tracks left by them would always be there, but the acute presence eased. She switched the lamp off and slid down against him, her ear to his chest, carried away by his steady heartbeat. Finally, they both slept.


	20. Chapter 20

Cuddy snapped abruptly awake, flooded with an undefined feeling of abandoned responsibility. The sunlight spilled across the bed, kissing her face, and it was this that had woken her.

Sunlight. _Too much _sunlight.

Guiltily, she turned to look at the clock. It was 9:45 a.m. Why hadn't the girls woken her up yet? Not a peep came from the monitor to the nursery. It had failed. The electronic device had failed, and she had been sound asleep here, oblivious to the needs of her daughters.

Wait a minute. Rachel at least could be quite loud enough, monitor or not, closed doors or not, to get her attention. She listened over her pounding heart. Not a sound. Was something wrong with them? Had they died in their sleep? _Both _of them?

She rocketed off the bed at full speed, though she did allow one half second to check quickly on House. He was deeply out still, his breathing steady, getting badly needed if chemically assisted rest. She threw on her robe as she bolted across the room and opened the door, racing across to the nursery. The girls weren't there, neither of them. No way Abby at least could have escaped without adult assistance. Frantic now, wondering if she had slept unawares through a kidnapper rather than a medical emergency, she hurried down the hall and skidded to a relieved stop at the living room.

Jensen was sitting on the couch, holding Abby, with Rachel beside him. The TV was on, though the volume was turned considerately low, and she hadn't even noticed that sound in her frantic quest for the sounds she wasn't hearing. Both of the girls had been dressed for the day, and a mostly empty bowl of Cheerios sat between Jensen and Rachel, with Belle curled on the other end of the couch, arrayed on a pillow as if it were specifically placed there to be a throne for her. Nicely peaceful scene, the girls watching Saturday morning cartoons, and it was so incongruous after the last 24 hours that it froze Cuddy for a moment.

The psychiatrist heard her and turned. "Good morning," he said, and Rachel, engrossed in the TV to that point, abandoned it immediately, turning to look at her mother.

"Mama!" she shrieked. "Morning, Mama!"

"Shhhh," Jensen reminded her, obviously a phrase much used this morning, as Rachel immediately mimicked it, dropping her tone to a stage whisper.

"Shhhh. Be quiet." She looked at her sister. "Shhhh, Abby."

Abby was smiling at her mother by this point. "Mama," she said, reaching out. Cuddy came around the couch and picked her younger daughter up, kissing her.

"Good morning, Abby. Good morning, Rachel." She looked at Jensen, sitting in their living room as comfortably as if he lived here. "Thank you."

His eyes met hers. He had marvelous eyes for his profession, dark and warm, compassionate but also steady and objective, a good match for his even, soothing voice. "You're welcome."

"Dada?" Abby asked. Rachel immediately scrambled off the couch and started up the hall at a brisk trot with Cuddy in quick pursuit.

"No, Rachel!" she called. "Leave him alone. He's tired; let's let him sleep late, okay?" Not that they had a choice, as she knew House would have been hard to wake up right now even with direct physical effort, but she didn't want Rachel to notice that. Some explanations had no place in the worldview of a not-quite 2-year-old. Her daughter had paused in the doorway, peering in at House motionless on the bed, and Cuddy circled her to firmly close the door. "He'll be up in a little while. Let's see how long we can keep quiet for him, okay?"

Rachel nodded wisely. "Tired. Shhhh."

Cuddy smiled. "That's right. He's tired. He was out late. Come on, let's go finish watching cartoons." Rachel galloped back down the hall, diverted easily as usual - she sometimes reminded Cuddy of that line from the Sound of Music: "How do you keep a wave upon the sand?" Abby was quieter, more thoughtful. Cuddy looked down to see her daughter's eyes looking back at her curiously. House's incomparable eyes.

House . . .

With a sigh, she felt the weight of last night crash back down onto her shoulders now that her concern for the safety of the girls was allayed. Her step was a slow, reluctant trudge away from her husband back into the living room.

"Have you all had breakfast?" she asked.

"Yes," Jensen replied, with Rachel providing a slightly delayed echo.

Cuddy sat down on the other end of the couch, hugging Abby like a teddy bear. Belle jumped down to join Rachel in the floor. "So you turned off the monitor?"

"Yes. I was already up when Abby started crying."

Abby had started crying. Cuddy felt a lance of guilt run through her. "I didn't even hear her."

"I got there pretty quickly. You were obviously exhausted, with good reason to be. Rachel had some questions, but I tried to turn it into a game. Fortunately, she's seen me several times, especially when we were taking shifts sitting with everybody in the hospital a year ago and then at the wedding since, so I wasn't a total stranger. Abby wondered, but she was quiet about it, at least."

Cuddy smiled, looking down at her daughter. "She is quiet. She's a lot stronger physically than she was those first months home, but I think even when she's older and totally caught up, her personality still is going to be a lot more bookish than Rachel."

"Rachel certainly has more energy and volume, but we've been trying to stay quiet." His voice, soft anyway, dropped even lower. "I take it Dr. House is still asleep?"

Cuddy glanced at Rachel, who was on the floor holding her gift bear and trying to explain the plot of the current cartoon to it. She smiled in spite of her worry. "Yes, he is. He will be for a while yet. He had a pretty rough night last night."

"It would have been a miracle if he hadn't," Jensen stated. "How are you holding up?"

"_Me?_" The question surprised her. "I'm . . . I'm worried." Her voice dropped even lower, but Rachel was ignoring the conversation of the adults, and Abby, content to be snuggled by her mother, was looking more drowsy than anything. "I swear, the man has been trapped his entire life in a pinball game. It never ends. How much more can one person take?"

"How badly was he hurt last night?" Jensen asked, his own voice full of concern. "I did suggest going to the ER, but he refused."

"I think it's just bruising. Not severe bruising, but it set off spasms in his leg, of course. He should be okay in a few days, might have to adjust his meds and add some Flexeril for a while." She wished there were mental medicines she could add as easily. "I can't believe Foreman would attack him."

"He was very drunk," Jensen reminded her.

"Even so, you don't do things when drunk that are against your character anyway. And specifically to target his leg . . . that's not just random lashing out while drunk."

Jensen nodded. "I haven't had much chance to observe him, just a few times back with Cathy's case and then last night, but Dr. Foreman struck me even last year as somebody with a lot of repressed anger of his own. Last night he was acting out of grief, but I do think therapy would benefit him in general, and the added shock right now would make it even more important."

Cuddy considered. "I could require it, given what he did last night. Make it a condition to be considered for continued employment; assaulting your disabled boss isn't something taken lightly, no matter how drunk you were." She felt a ripple of her own guilt from the past awaken; she had set a trip wire on him, after all. No matter why, no matter how much good had ultimately come out of it, the action itself remained inexcusable. Wrestling her thoughts back to Foreman, she continued, "But requiring it isn't going to really help him, is it?"

"Not unless he truly wants it to. Even if you require it, definitely don't require it for him with me. I don't think Dr. House would take well to that at all."

"That's an understatement. Greg would probably see that as Foreman wanting a chance to pry into _his_ therapy, now that Foreman knows. He trusts you -" she hesitated for a moment, see an odd expression flit through Jensen's eyes briefly. Not denial of her statement, but _something_, some reaction or memory in the psychiatrist. A moment later, the eyes were steady again, and she wondered if she had imagined it. She went on. "He doesn't trust Foreman, though. Besides, I'm afraid you're going to have quite enough to be helping us with already."

"I'm afraid so, too," Jensen agreed.

Cuddy sighed again. "Bad enough what Dr. Hadley did - although I doubt _she_ blamed Greg. She was probably too locked in the accusations against her to even be thinking past it to what was said about him. He'll blame himself at least partly for her, though. But throwing his past out there like that, in front of so many people . . ." She shook her head. "He still is afraid of people knowing. John taught him that lesson too well." As usual when she thought about House's excuse for a father, her hands clenched unconsciously. Abby gave a drowsy murmur, and Cuddy forced herself to relax her grip. She looked again at Rachel, who was still immersed in the TV and paying no attention to their extremely quiet conversation. Rachel wasn't subtle with questions. If she thought they were talking about something concerning to her, she would have asked what.

"There's the sense of shame and personal failure, too, which almost all abuse victims have," Jensen replied.

Cuddy nodded. "As if it were his fault. How on earth could anybody blame him? _He_ was the victim. Of course, Chandler is striking at his medical judgment, too, and that's the one thing he's always thought himself he did well. A lot of his self-esteem, such as it is, has always been defined through his job." She looked directly at Jensen, meeting his eyes. "Honestly, how much trouble do you think he's going to have dealing with all this?"

Jensen typically met the question head-on, but she could tell how much he hated the answer. "I think a few years ago, before he had gotten together with you, it would have completely destroyed him. I don't think he could have recovered. Now, things are different, hopefully different enough. He's got you and the girls, has a supportive family, and he's been working quite hard on his issues for all that time, too. Even so, all this will be very hard to deal with. I think trying to break things up into segments would help with him feeling overwhelmed, but I'm having trouble finding any way to prioritize them. All are too acutely present. There's the revelation of the abuse, the challenge to his medical judgment, and Dr. Hadley's suicide. He does not know how to grieve, not even for work associates. I don't think he's ever truly been allowed opportunity for healthy grief for someone close to him in his entire life. And of course, this isn't just a psychiatric battle but a legal one, which complicates everything even more."

She shook her head, fury again building up in her. "I could _kill_ Chandler. If he ever sets foot in my hospital again, security had better be ready, for his sake more than mine."

Abby was nearly asleep in her arms, but Rachel looked back, hearing her mother's suddenly far sharper tone. "Mama okay?"

Cuddy firmly got a grip on herself. "I'm okay, Rachel. There was a bad thing that happened at work yesterday, and Dr. Jensen and I were just talking about it. It will be okay." It _had_ to be okay. But for the life of her, at the moment, she couldn't see how it ever would. She sighed again and realized she was still wearing a robe. "Could you take Abby for a few minutes again? I need to get dressed."

"Of course," Jensen replied, reaching out for the drowsy infant. Cuddy gave her daughter a kiss before handing her over, then got up.

"I'm going to get dressed, Rachel. I'll be back in a minute."

"Okay," Rachel replied, but she looked a bit worried now, and she watched her mother, not the cartoon, as Cuddy headed down the hall.

Cuddy entered the bedroom and reclosed the door softly, but House was still dead to the world. Part of her almost wished he could stay that way, knowing the demons that were hovering around even now, just waiting for his mind to come back online again before they renewed their attack. Going across to him, she checked his pulse and respiration, then leaned over to kiss him, fighting a sudden urge to climb back in bed and just hold him, even though he would be unaware right now. "It's going to be okay, Greg," she promised him, as she had Rachel. "Everything is going to be okay."

She wasn't even convincing herself. With a sigh, she straightened up, leaving her husband to medicated rest, and started to hunt for clothes for the day.


	21. Chapter 21

Saturday morning and the return of Wilson. Next chapter is a complex one with lots of Jensen. Thanks for all the reviews!

(H/C)

Music. House climbed back up through layers of clouds, reaching for the surface he knew was up there somewhere. His eyes finally opened, but it took a bit for him to pinpoint the source of the music. It stopped just as he opened his eyes, but after a minute, it started up again.

His cell phone on the nightstand was going off - Cuddy had obviously automatically emptied his pockets after taking off his clothes last night, since their entire contents sat there. The cell phone was lit up, demanding attention. Dancing Queen.

House reached for it, still feeling somewhat foggy. This wasn't a reaction to the sleeping pill, which normally left him feeling refreshed after several hours of sleep, and Vicodin didn't do this to him, either. He had always appreciated the fact that unlike some other narcotics tried after the infarction, Vicodin did not cloud his thoughts or interfere with diagnostic clarity. Cuddy must have given him something more last night after he finally had agreed to take the meds. He clicked the phone on. "'lo," he said, his voice sounding as gravely as his mouth felt.

"House?" Wilson sounded agitated. "Sorry I woke you up . . . I mean, I apologize."

Sorry. House remembered the stairs from his dreams last night. Falling down with not only his father's insincere apology but with the entire world as an audience watching every painful bump along his tumbling way. He shuddered, and his leg twinged sharply, reaffirming that yesterday's events hadn't just been another nightmare.

"House?" Wilson was squawking in his ear. "Are you listening?"

House blinked. Wilson. "What?"

"Are you listening? I'm kind of having a crisis here."

Having a crisis. The current situation qualified as a crisis if he'd ever seen one. How could he possibly fix what he'd set into motion? His mind seemed to be working annoyingly slowly, and although he tried to think of something, no convenient solution popped up. Not just him, but all of them. His family was being dragged into it along with him as innocent casualties in the war. Where were they, anyway? House looked over at the closed bedroom door, then at the clock. Cuddy had definitely topped him off last night and then left him to sleep away the whole morning. If he'd had any emotion to spare, her actions might have irritated him. As it was, he just felt numb.

". . . and it just happened. I didn't mean for it to."

"What just happened?" House asked, suddenly confused. Wilson was cutting in and out of his thoughts like a radio station almost at the limit of reception.

"Haven't you heard a word I said? Last night kind of got away from me. Things just all led into each other, like I was only along for the ride."

"Tell me about it."

"That's what I'm _trying_ to do." The oncologist was getting frustrated. "I can tell I just woke you up, but even so . . . wait a minute. You're partway drugged, aren't you?"

House ran a differential, his thoughts hovering detached somewhere above his body and inspecting it as he would a patient's case. Tendrils of fog not quite burned off. Leg annoyed but not quite as bad as he would have expected this morning, at least as long as he hadn't really moved yet. Dry mouth. Sustained-release morphine. "I think so," he agreed.

"You _think_ so? You took something and don't remember?"

"No, I think somebody else gave it to me." Pretty sure of it, in fact.

Wilson sighed. "Are you even capable of a conversation right now?"

"Not sure, but I'll bet the world is just waiting to talk about everything with me, so I'm going to get one, probably several, like it or not." The world pressed in closer on his perceptions, as if agreeing and eager to start dissecting his life. The fog was slowly lifting a bit, though visibility was still not 100%.

"What would the whole world be just waiting to talk to you about on a Saturday?"

"Chandler is suing us over Christopher, everybody knows about my past, Thirteen committed suicide, and Foreman attacked me," House replied almost conversationally.

Wilson was making incoherent noises on the other end of the phone for a few seconds. "Are you hallucinating?" he asked, almost sounding hopeful that that was the case.

House shared the sentiment. "I wish."

"Thirteen . . . and what did you mean, everybody knows?"

House closed his eyes, wishing he could recapture sleep - minus nightmares - and push this new reality off a little longer. "Like I said, the whole world knows. Chandler listed the abuse with a few choice details in the lawsuit, accused me of medical homicide because I was too distracted to do my job, and had copies of the papers sent all around the hospital."

"And Thirteen committed suicide?"

"Yes. What's your crisis?" He suddenly felt a ripple of concern for Wilson through the overwhelming guilt over current events. Why had the oncologist called him again? He had sounded upset, although House still wasn't sure about what.

Wilson sighed. "Never mind. I don't think I'm having one after all. I'll be back to Princeton soon as I can get a plane." The oncologist hung up.

House put the cell phone back on the nightstand and then lay there passively in the bed, too weighed down by last night's events to move, feeling the drugs slowly wearing off. He stared at the opposite wall with his eyes open but near unblinking, his thoughts his only company.

(H/C)

Cuddy was in the kitchen, trying to get a casserole ready to go in the oven. In about another 20 minutes, she would go wake up House. The drugs should be wearing off, but he wouldn't be waking up without some stimulus quite yet. She and Jensen had agreed that he didn't need to wake up alone this morning, to try to prevent an opportunity for him immediately to start brooding on the events of yesterday, especially while he was still feeling the residual lassitude of drugs. She wanted his first impressions of the day to be her presence, love, and reassurance. But Rachel insisted on trying to "help" with lunch, which was slowing things down. Rachel had been demanding more attention than usual ever since Cuddy got up, as if she sensed something uneasy in the atmosphere. Cuddy tried to pacify her daughter while keeping a careful eye on the clock. If she had to, she'd just put lunch preparations on hold and go to him first. Abby sat quietly in her carrier on the counter and watched her mother and sister as if they were far more interesting than television.

Jensen had taken House's car and gone out shopping, needing some clothes and a few things. They had agreed anyway that she was the better one to be with House initially after he woke up, to remind him of the family he now had as allies in his battle. Jensen would return early this afternoon, after House and Cuddy had had a chance to have lunch, and then, while the girls were having their afternoon nap, he would talk to House himself. Marina was unavailable today, as was the backup sitter, so the girls couldn't be sent somewhere else. Cuddy could run interference if needed, but Jensen thought that having the reminder of his family around might actually help in the new crisis.

"No, Rachel. This is your bowl over here." Rachel was sitting on the counter enthusiastically stirring, throwing in ingredients, and Cuddy caught her hand just before she put something in the real mixing bowl. "I gave you a little one of your own. You play with this one."

Cuddy's cell phone rang, and she mumbled something under her breath, hoped Rachel and Abby hadn't heard it clearly, and grabbed the instrument. "Hello?"

It was Wilson, sounding absolutely wired. "Cuddy? Is it true that Thirteen committed suicide and that Chandler is suing you all and sent papers all over the hospital revealing House's background?"

She sighed. "Yes. Did you call your assistant? Did she get one, too? I tried . . ."

"No, I talked to House."

Cuddy froze. "You talked to _House?_ Just now? Today?"

"About 15 minutes ago. I just took a quick shower and was packing; I'll get the first plane back I can. But then I thought I'd make sure he wasn't just dreaming first. He didn't quite sound like he was hitting on all cylinders, and it took him a few calls to answer the phone. Was he drugged?"

Cuddy had been staring at the stove in growing horror. Abby and Rachel both were looking at her in puzzled concern now. "You woke him up 15 minutes ago, and you're just _now_ calling me?"

"I wanted to verify . . . I thought maybe he'd been dreaming after all. What's this about Thirteen? Why would she . . ."

She steamrollered straight over his questions. "So he's been in there awake, _alone_, for 15 minutes?" Cuddy literally dropped the phone, ignoring its squawks of further interrogation. She lifted Rachel down, picked up Abby's carrier, and bolted for the bedroom, even beating her daughter in a race for once.

(H/C)

They burst through the bedroom door like a troop of arriving cavalry - Cuddy carrying Abby, Belle nosing out Rachel for second place. House was lying in bed in nearly the same position as earlier but with his eyes open now, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Lost in thought, he didn't even respond to the tempestuous arrival of his family.

"Greg!" Cuddy reached out to touch his foot through the covers. His expression was everything she had hoped to keep him from feeling when he woke up this morning. He was locked into his own world at the moment, and it wasn't a hopeful one. Why hadn't she remembered to turn off his cell phone last night? "Greg. Greg."

He blinked and focused on the third repetition, looking over at her, and their eyes met. Cuddy fought to keep herself from flinching at the guilt and helplessness reflected in them.

"Dada!" Rachel was trying to scramble onto the bed. House looked down at her, his expression softening slightly, and Cuddy, seizing the distraction, gave her daughter a boost. Belle, disdaining such methods, made a clean leap onto the bed, landing with feline pain radar well to one side of his leg instead of on top of him. Rachel, once on the bed, wasn't quite so careful, and he flinched as she scrambled over him. "Good morning!" she said brightly.

House looked at her. The innocence, the bright cheerfulness, as if it were just another day. At least her perceptions of him hadn't changed. Not yet, anyway. "Good morning, Rachel," he replied.

She patted his leg questioningly, and he flinched again, though he tried to repress it. "Ouch?"

"That's right. Ouch. It's hurting more than usual today."

"Ouch," she stated. She leaned over to kiss the blanket on top of his leg, then looked back up at him. "Better?'

He blinked back tears. "Yes, that made it better. Thank you." She crawled up onto his stomach, wrapping her arms around him. Cuddy had finished unbuckling Abby from her carrier and handed her over, and House clutched her tightly, bending his head to breathe in her clean baby scent - and to avoid Cuddy's eyes.

"Greg," she said softly. He sighed and looked up. Cue up the supportive platitudes for the day. He could have quoted them himself. It's not your fault, it doesn't matter anyway, and we can beat this. He was sure Cuddy would want to make bumper stickers of encouragement to paste across the twisted wreck of yesterday's events, but no bumper sticker would be able to hide the fact that it was a twisted wreck.

"I apologize for not being here when you woke up. I'd meant to be." She climbed back into the bed next to him, sliding herself over to join the girls in snuggling against him. "I didn't mean for you to wake up alone. You are _not_ alone, Greg."

"You drugged me," he said, but the accusation was almost numb. There was no fire, no indignation. She would have preferred for him to be mad at her.

"You needed it, but I apologize."

He simply accepted it and dropped that subject. "Did Jensen leave yet?"

Odd choice for his first question, she thought to herself. Not where was Jensen, but had he left. Maybe House just realized as strongly as they did how much he would need help getting through this. "He's gone to the store. He wanted to take a shower, and he needed some clothes and a few things first."

House nodded. No doubt the psychiatrist would leave for good after getting cleaned up. He certainly wouldn't want to stick around after a whole night to think about everything House had said to him yesterday. No, House had destroyed that relationship nicely, just like he ultimately had with most others in his life. At least Cuddy was still with him, had been reassuring him last night that she would go with him all the way through the crisis and beyond, though he had to wonder why at times. And the girls, too. He still had the girls. They were too young to be put off by him yet. He looked down at his daughters, wondering how many years it would take until they saw him truly.

Cuddy didn't like how passive her husband seemed right now, as if the battle were already lost instead of just begun. "How's the leg?" she asked.

He let go of Abby with one hand to reach down to it, exploring lightly. "Little worse than usual, not too bad. I haven't tried to walk yet, though. Probably I'll fail at that, too."

She cringed. "You haven't failed at anything."

"Tell that to Chandler."

"Believe me, I intend to." She grasped his hand, squeezing it, trying for at least _some_ reaction. "We can beat this, Greg."

"And bring Thirteen back from the dead and unsend paperwork?" he asked skeptically, showing the most spark he had so far. "Hell, why not just make Christopher live while we're at it? That would fix everything."

Rachel had been ignoring them, just hugging her father, glad that he was awake now and the mandate all morning of "shhh" could be lifted. Now, though, she raised her head. "Lunch, Dada! I help."

Cuddy smiled, trying to pull House into the spirit of it. "I was fixing a casserole, and Rachel was helping. She had her own bowl and was mixing things up."

He did smile there briefly. "Sounds . . . interesting."

"We did have separate bowls," Cuddy pointed out. "It's not quite in the oven yet. You could take a shower while it's cooking. Or maybe a soak in the hot tub would feel good on the leg."

He shook his head. "Bruising is too recent," he said automatically. "It needs 48 hours before a good hot soak."

"You're right. I hadn't considered the bruising. I was just thinking about the spasms. We can put you on Flexeril, at least." Her eyes flared up. "I ought to fire Foreman."

"It wasn't his fault," House insisted, but his voice was still detached. "He was right. If I hadn't screwed up that case, Thirteen wouldn't have killed herself."

Cuddy squeezed his hand until her own hurt, trying to break through the numbness. "He was _not_ right, Greg, and you didn't screw up that case. You never stopped following medical leads while the abuse was being checked out. You weren't working inefficiently; we just can't save all of them. It wasn't your fault."

"Come eat, Dada!" Rachel insisted. She slid off him, scrambling to the edge of the bed, and Cuddy quickly got up to help her down. Rachel never could stay in one spot too long.

"She's got a point. You not only missed breakfast; you missed dinner last night. Come eat, Greg. A good hot meal and meds will make you feel a lot better."

He sighed. He wasn't hungry, but he guessed he did have to get up at some point. Couldn't spend the rest of life in bed with the door shut, much as the thought appealed to him right now. "Okay, Rachel," he promised. "I'll be up in a minute, and I'll check out your casserole." Satisfied, Rachel trotted out of the room back toward the kitchen. She was starting to learn even at her age that it took him a while to get up.

Another compensation, already starting to be programmed into his daughters, young as they were. Make allowances for things their father can't do. He looked down at Abby, who was looking back at him with an expression of worry. "Dada?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face.

Tears welled up again, and he blinked them back. "I'm okay, Abby." He hugged her tightly to his chest. "I'm okay." His voice was shaky, trying to keep control. Cuddy hugged him fiercely from the side, relieved that he abruptly leaned into her instead of away. They stayed that way as a family knot of three until a crash from the kitchen broke the embrace.

"Belle!" Rachel's exasperated shout carried clear down the hall. "No! MY bowl!"

House chuckled, even if a short-lived one. "You'd better go rescue your bowl before they get it, too."

Cuddy gave him a final squeeze, then picked up Abby and stood. She could tell he didn't want an audience as he got out of bed and tested his bruised leg. "See you in a few minutes," she said. "But if you don't turn up, I'm sending out a search party pretty quick."

Left in the bedroom, House pushed the covers aside and slowly sat up, giving his leg a moment to adjust. It was worse than usual today, but the extended-release morphine hadn't entirely worn off. He studied the marks across his thigh for a minute with ironic appreciation of Foreman's aim. He had thought about using the gating mechanism himself last night, although Jensen annoyingly stopped him, but Foreman had certainly taken that concept to the next level. Trouble was, Jensen was right. The pain was just additional pain. It hadn't replaced the calamity or made it disappear. It had only added to the list of insults. "Greg?" Cuddy called from the other part of the house. "You doing okay in there?"

"Fine," he replied, knowing that if he didn't answer promptly, she'd be down the hall in another six-point-three seconds. Obviously she wasn't going to give him much time alone, any more than Jensen had last night. Part of him was grateful, glad to have one person irrevocably - if incomprehensibly at times - on his side; part only wished that he didn't have to drag her down with him as he went under. With a lurch, probably looking as crippled as he felt, he stood up to face the day.


	22. Chapter 22

Massive work issues and server issues this afternoon, sigh. Hi, readers! Send money. :)

On the positive side, Jensen is great company on a frustrating day.

(H/C)

Jensen returned just before 2:00. The girls were on the couch with Rachel looking defiantly not sleepy as he came in. Cuddy was in the chair and looked up quickly as the door opened. House was playing the piano, soft, gentle, relaxing melodies, obviously trying to lull the children to sleep. His playing was technically excellent as always, but there was nothing extra put into this, no improvisations, no adding his own personal touch to the music, simply soothing, easy tunes.

"Hello," Jensen greeted the room at large. House gave a nod of acknowledgment without looking up from his differential on his hands moving across the keyboard. Cuddy stood and came across to close the door. Jensen had both hands stuffed full of shopping bags.

"Did you leave anything for the rest of Princeton?" she asked, trying to sound joking, but her eyes were worried.

"Oh, I think the rest of Princeton will have plenty of selection left. Some of this goes in the refrigerator." He set down some bags next to the door and started toward the kitchen with the remainder.

"You didn't have to . . ." Cuddy started to protest, following him, before it suddenly occurred to her that this might be a diversion, an opportunity to snatch a private minute on his return. "Greg, keep an eye on the girls, okay?"

"I will," he replied. The music continued, flawless but almost detached. There was no real feeling or spark in it.

Cuddy hurried on into the kitchen to find Jensen in fact unloading some groceries that really did go into the fridge. "You didn't need to do that," she objected.

"I'm eating some of your food; only fair to replace it," he said with pleasant determination. Jensen at least looked better, much more like himself than he had last night.

"In case you haven't noticed it, we are the ones totally messing up your life and inconveniencing you, not vice versa," she insisted softly.

"But you're paying me for services. I'll be sure to bill you for a session today, so on that score, we're even. Besides, you were almost out of ice cream. Never a good idea in a crisis."

Her eyes fell. "I, um, finished off a good bit of a carton last night while I was waiting for Greg to get home."

"Believe me, I understand. You now have plenty of ice cream for you and him both. I might even take a bowl myself later as compensation for delivery." He opened the freezer. "How's it going?"

She looked back toward the kitchen door. "I'm not sure. Some good, some bad. He did eat lunch, and he didn't get all stubborn on taking his meds, which I was worried about after last night. He hasn't tried to hurt himself. But he doesn't seem to have much spirit in him, either. Oh, and I didn't get to wake him up. Wilson called and did it for me, so he did have about 15 minutes in there alone to get good and locked into everything mentally before I realized he was awake."

Jensen sighed. "Okay, not ideal, but that's better than total negatives. I was really worried about the issue with the medicines after your report from last night. I was afraid he might be trying that as another way of hurting himself."

"Have you had any ideas yet?" she asked hopefully.

"A few. We'd better get back in there before this excuse wears thin. Hopefully we can make some progress this afternoon, but a lot of it is up to him." He shut the freezer.

House was still playing softly as they re-entered the living room. He hadn't been fooled, of course, but he didn't let Cuddy realize that. He'd known the minute Jensen headed for the kitchen what was going on. Jensen wanted to explain to her privately what a complete jerk her husband had been last night and why he was being dropped as a patient. The ever-polite psychiatrist probably figured she deserved some advance explanation and warning. Sure enough, Cuddy had an additional dose of worry in her eyes, quickly suppressed, as she came back in.

Jensen walked over toward the piano. "We need to talk," he said.

House nodded. Of course they did. Suddenly he wanted to put off the inevitable a little longer, though. Coward, he chided himself, and John immediately jumped in, reminding him that he was also a weakling. "Not in front of them," he objected, nodding toward the girls. "Besides, I've almost got them to sleep, which hasn't been easy. I can't stop playing just yet. Go ahead and take a shower first."

"All right," Jensen agreed. He picked up a couple of the other bags from beside the door, leaving one, and headed back down the hall. Cuddy dropped into the chair again, looking over at her daughters. Abby was totally out, and Rachel, still fighting it, wasn't far behind her.

"You've got the magic touch, Greg," she said. "I wasn't getting anywhere with them this afternoon."

He shook his head. "It's the music, not me." The melody never faltered. Cuddy sat quietly listening to his music and watching his face, wishing that the moods of the two came closer to matching.

After the girls were tucked back in the nursery for the afternoon nap, Cuddy returned to the living room and sat there watching House play for a while. His music still was almost distracted, even and fluid but not challenging, somehow disconnected from himself. Technical perfection without the passion in it. Thus would a robot, albeit a highly advanced one, have played. His eyes were on his hands, but she could tell he was seeing something completely different. She hesitated to disturb him while he was playing, knowing what a stress release the piano usually was for him, but his attitude bothered her; she had never seen him play like this. Jensen eventually came back down the hall, and House resolved the tonic and just sat there on the piano bench still looking down at his hands, not at the psychiatrist. He knew he couldn't put this off any longer.

Cuddy stood up. "I'll grab a book and go back to the bedroom," she offered.

House sighed. "No, you might as well stay here." This wouldn't take long anyway, and he wouldn't mind having the one person with him who wasn't about to give up and leave.

"Really?" She was surprised, although undeniably curious, too. He was intensely private about his sessions. Never had she actually sat in on one.

House felt a stab of annoyance slam through him at her tone, especially after she had been part of that sotto voce discussion in the kitchen. "Oh, drop the charade, Lisa. You know what we're going to be discussing anyway."

She looked puzzled now, hearing the genuine irritation behind his words. "Well, in general, yes, but you always want to keep the specifics to yourself."

"A little late for that, don't you think?"

Jensen stepped smoothly into the gap. "I think we're operating on two different frames of reference here. What do _you_ think we're going to be talking about, Dr. House?"

House still hadn't looked at him, his eyes on Cuddy. "The same thing you were talking about in the kitchen a while ago."

"And what do you think that was?" Jensen pushed on.

House brought his hands down in annoyance on the keyboard, and the piano gave a clashing tone in protest. "You know good and well what that was."

"I do, yes, but I'm not convinced that _you_ do." Jensen's voice was as even and unflappable as ever; House's was rising. Cuddy looked from one to the other of them, totally confused now.

House met the psychiatrist's look directly for the first time. His own blue eyes looked both defiant and terrified. "Would you go ahead and fire me and just get this over with?"

"WHAT?" Cuddy was astonished, astonished beyond all acting ability, and House looked back to her, for the first time uncertain.

"That's what you were talking about in there, wasn't it?"

"Why on earth would Jensen fire you?"

House's eyes fell again, studying his hands on the silent keyboard. "Ask him."

Cuddy looked back at Jensen, completely baffled. "You'll have to answer that yourself, Dr. House. For my part, I have no reason."

House's head snapped up, and his unbelieving eyes met Jensen's again. "Were you even _there_ last night? Odd, I remember you being there. Extensively. I couldn't even turn around the whole evening without bumping into you."

"I was there, but I saw and heard nothing that would make me want to stop seeing you as a client."

"You have GOT to be kidding." House was directly challenging now.

Cuddy felt completely lost. "Greg, what on earth are you talking about?"

"I was an absolute jerk, and you know it," House snapped, annoyed now at the drawing out of this process.

"No, you weren't," Jensen replied evenly. "You made a mistake - a logical and understandable mistake, I might add. While your conclusion was wrong, I can appreciate the differential that led you there, and you were trying to investigate all possibilities, not just jumping to conclusions. The conversation with your mother - which you had _first_, remember, before you latched onto the idea of me - only contributed to your misinformation. That's all that happened; you made an understandable mistake under very extreme stress, and I don't hold that against you. There's a difference between making a simple mistake which misinformation from someone else contributed to you making and being a jerk."

House was staring at him. "I think _you_ need a psychiatrist," he stated.

"Is the idea of someone not holding mistakes over your head that foreign to you?" Jensen asked.

Cuddy shook her head. "I think _I'm _going to need a psychiatrist in a minute. Could somebody please tell me what's going on here?"

Jensen looked at House, waiting for permission. After a moment, House nodded, though his eyes immediately dropped to his hands again, not looking at Jensen and definitely not looking at Cuddy. She really didn't know yet, and he didn't want to see her recognition of how he had handled last night. Maybe once she knew, she'd start rethinking her decision to go through things all the way with him after all.

Jensen launched the explanation. "After he was served the papers, Dr. House was trying to work out how Patrick could have obtained such detailed confidential information on him."

Cuddy nodded. "I wasn't down to thinking through that point yet, but I had wondered that briefly myself."

House looked up, surprised. "What other points come before that one? It jumps right off the legal paperwork at you."

Cuddy felt the familiar exasperation. "I was worried about _you_, Greg. The details of how could come later. I needed to find you and make sure you knew we could get through this first." House was again totally taken by surprise. How could concern for him trump a logical, procedural question? Cuddy saw the puzzled look in his eyes and went over to join him on the piano bench, putting an arm around his shoulders. "_You_ are the first - and so far pretty much the only - thing I thought of. Details were in line, but they had a later number. So you were trying to work it out. How does that involve Jensen?"

House sighed. "Four possibilities. Only four people who had that level of knowledge." He looked quickly back up at Jensen, then back at his hands. "Well, actually five, but I forgot about the fifth one." He trailed off.

Jensen gave him a moment to see if he would go on, then picked up the tale. "His choices were you yourself, Dr. Cuddy, Dr. Wilson, his mother, and me. He immediately eliminated you and Dr. Wilson from the pool, you based on trust and Dr. Wilson based on never making that mistake again after last time."

Cuddy's body tensed up, the flames of anger starting to flare up. "Blythe. I swear, if she. . . "

"I didn't blame her," House said, his eyes still down on his hands. "I blamed Jensen. And told him so."

"Why would you . . . Jensen wouldn't do that. That's a violation of confidentiality."

"You did _not_ just blame me," Jensen insisted. "You called your mother first to check out that possibility, and her wrong answer threw you off track."

House shook his head. "I ought to know what questions to ask. That's part of diagnostics, knowing how to phrase the question."

"You're only human, Dr. House. A truly remarkable human, I might add. Anybody else blindsided with those legal papers wouldn't have been capable of a differential on suspects at all, even if a flawed one."

Cuddy's anger reached her eyes and spilled out into the room. "So let me get this straight. It was your mother?"

"She didn't mean to," House said.

"How exactly do you share . . . all _that_ . . . accidentally? You told her, and I told her, that if she told anybody, we'd end the relationship."

"I completely forgot the one person she was talking to with my permission." Cuddy still didn't see it. "Her psychiatrist."

"So her psychiatrist violated confidentiality?" Cuddy shook her head. "I can't see any health care professional making a slip of this magnitude. That's on the level of serious legal charges, losing your license even."

House nodded. Yes, her administrative mind had summed it up well. "He didn't exactly break confidentiality. His notes did. Somebody had to break in and copy them."

"How did Chandler know Blythe's psychiatrist's name?" House sighed. "She _told_ him?" Cuddy was incredulous. "Of all the . . ."

"I didn't think to ask her _that_ question," House said. "So once she denied sharing any information on me, I jumped on Jensen instead."

"Which, as I said, was an understandable mistake," Jensen insisted. "I have absolutely no hard feelings for it."

House shook his head. "You _should_."

"According to whom? Who wrote the code that nobody deserves understanding or forgiveness, even for unintentional errors?" House shivered as the answer supplied itself, and Jensen continued. "He was _wrong_, Dr. House. Remember? He has horrible qualifications to be the ultimate authority on human behavior. He doesn't deserve that position, and it's high time you fired him from it. I for one refuse to recognize his authority; how I conduct my relationships has nothing to do with what your father would think. This decision is _mine_, not his, and there is nothing you did or said last night that I find unforgivable." House was still staring at his hands. "However, there are two steps to forgiveness. The first one is for the person against whom a perceived offense was made to decide to let it go. I've done that. This _is not_ an issue, from my point of view. But the second side is for the other person to _accept_ that offered forgiveness and agree to move on. If _either person_ is still hanging onto that past mistake, it remains an obstacle in the relationship. I have absolutely no problems forgiving you for what you said, and it was a perfectly understandable error, but to move on successfully with therapy, you will _have_ to accept that and forgive yourself. It's up to you at this point."

House sighed, still studying his hands. "How can you just let that go?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"I can. The real question we are facing here is, can you? I want to help you get through this upcoming battle, Dr. House. Furthermore, I think I _can_ help you. But you must completely put last night - that aspect of it, anyway - behind you and let it go in order for me to be effective. You can't be looking at everything I say through the light of trying to figure out ulterior motives that simply are not present. Your misperception about our conversation in the kitchen is a perfect example. If we continue, we are _both_ agreeing to let go of last night's misunderstandings." Jensen gave him a moment to think about that, then pushed the point again gently. "What happens next is your decision. Do you want me to continue working with you, Dr. House?"

House was starting to tremble again slightly, and Cuddy pulled him closer, giving him an encouraging squeeze with her arm that was around his shoulder. House was fighting two voices at the moment, John's telling him that his offenses were beyond any redemption and that he deserved to be abandoned and Jensen's telling him that they could simply agree to let last night go and continue as they had been. Could it possibly be true that people could just move on from mistakes, with no hard feelings, no added figure in the all-important score column for use in the final tally later? "Yes," he said after a minute, his voice still almost uncertain at the possibility, but at least he said it.

"Good," Jensen replied. "So last night is officially _over_. That part of it, anyway. Dealt with, behind us, and it isn't allowed back up out of the grave. Now on to the rest of last night, which isn't going to be as easy to overcome, but we _can_ do it. First, though, I'd suggest you move to somewhere more comfortable. This session is probably going to take a while, and furthermore, we aren't going to get everything done today. Things take time."

House stood up, flinching. He had been sitting on the piano bench for nearly two hours now, between the girls and Jensen, and his leg had stiffened up. Jensen watched his stride as he limped to the couch. The leg was understandably much worse than usual today. House sat down sideways on the couch, his back against the arm rest, flinching as he brought the leg up. Cuddy helped stick a pillow underneath his knee, trying to make him comfortable, but he saw the expression in her eyes. She still looked livid. "Breathe, Lisa," he reminded her.

"I cannot believe that your mother is behind this."

House shook his head. "Patrick is behind this. He's a manipulator. She didn't realize."

"She didn't realize a lot of things in her life that she should have, and it's time she started improving her judgment." Cuddy forced herself to take a few deep breaths. "With that, um, misunderstanding out of the way, do you want me to go back into the bedroom, Greg? I don't mind leaving you two alone."

House sighed. "No. You can stay." If she could endure the scene she just had without packing her bags and leaving with the girls, she probably wasn't going to run out as they dissected his failures on Christopher's case. Besides, this was her house. He was the one who had moved into her place. He hated to kick her out of her own living room.

She sat down on the other end of the couch, picking up his feet and resting them on her thigh. "I wonder how the information on Dr. Hadley got out. How well did she know your mother?"

House shook his head. "Oh, that one was easy. That was Foreman's fault."

Jensen, in the armchair, came to full attention. "How so?"

"No, I literally mean it _was_ Foreman's fault. This isn't just a wrong diagnosis on incomplete data. I was there in the room and heard him. Thirteen was doing a lot of work in the room and around the family on that case." House flinched, remembering again whose choice that had been, and Jensen noted the reaction and filed it for future excavation. "She was just about to leave the room at one point when Foreman came looking for her and told her it was time for her clinical trial appointment. She tried to put off having that discussion right then, because she'd already decided to quit because her symptoms were getting worse, and he refused to drop the subject. He specifically mentioned her diagnosis of Huntington's and also the failed clinical trials she had already been through."

"In front of Patrick?" Jensen asked, just making sure he had this picture straight.

"In front of Patrick and the mother both," House confirmed. "And the patient himself, not that that mattered much with a 4-year-old."

Cuddy shook her head. "That's violating HIPAA. That is major. She had clear grounds for an official complaint and disciplinary action against him by the medical board."

"Furthermore, that explains a _great_ deal about Dr. Foreman's attitude last night," Jensen noted. "He obviously realizes that he gave her confidential information away himself, not even through manipulation as your mother did but by direct statement. He blames himself for her death, with some actual evidence to support that, and he cannot deal with the implications of his conclusion, so that is why he lashed out so strongly against you."

House considered that, then nodded, although he still felt that some things in the matter of Thirteen fell to his account, not Foreman's. "That makes sense."

Jensen stood up. "Okay, are you ready to begin?"

He really didn't feel like it, but he knew the snarled-up mess of all the domino-chain consequences of Christopher's death had to be faced sooner or later. It was too large to be escaped. His only other option besides facing it was to completely quit the game, as Thirteen had, but he could never do that to Cuddy and his daughters. He still wasn't sure what even Jensen could do to fix all of this, though. The dead couldn't come back, and paperwork and revelations could not be retracted. He saw absolutely no way out of this. "I guess."

Jensen smiled at him and then walked over to the door, picking up the one remaining bag left there from his morning's shopping. House came to attention. "You bought something for me this morning?" Before they had even talked through last night? The psychiatrist wasn't just full of impressive words. He truly had no hard feelings, and here was definite, tangible proof.

Jensen nodded. "Let it go, Dr. House. Remember." He sat back down in the chair, pulling out the contents of the bag. A dry erase board, an eraser, and a package of different-colored markers.

House straightened up a bit on the couch. "A whiteboard?"

"Yes. We're going to run a differential." Jensen propped the board up across the armrest of his chair, visible to all, and uncapped the first marker. He definitely had House's attention now, the diagnostician no longer staring at his hands but studying this setup with curiosity peeking through the guilt and fear that definitely were still present. "Let's get started."

Cuddy sat on the other end of the couch in absolute awe, feeling as she had so many times watching a scene in the conference room, appreciating the undeniable genius and technique of a master at work.


	23. Chapter 23

Jensen took the black marker and divided the whiteboard into three sections, the upper part into two halves, the lower part undivided. He hoped he was doing this close to the way House did, but the diagnostician had described his process with his team several times by now over the course of a year and a half of therapy. It wasn't unusual for them to talk about tough cases, either successful ones (the majority of them) or the rare one where he had been too late or still missing vital pieces of the puzzle. Those especially haunted him. He was truly obsessive about his work.

The psychiatrist wrote across the top of one of the smaller sections _Christopher_. "Okay, what we're going to do here is work out how you've failed in this whole situation."

Cuddy started to make a murmur of protest, which she managed to suppress, but House himself couldn't bite back a bitter comment. "This is supposed to _help_?"

"I hope so," Jensen replied evenly. He kept his focus on House, but he saw Cuddy out of his peripheral vision. She was looking at him with a clear message of warning. He hoped Cuddy would be able to stay pretty much on the sidelines during this session. It also bothered him a bit that House had asked her to stay; he wasn't sure that the motives there were entirely positive. Something about the other man's expression when he said it had struck Jensen as being based on a false assumption. The first time he could understand; House had clearly expected Jensen to sever all ties and march out indignantly, and he had wanted Cuddy for moral support. But the second time she asked, he had been thinking something else, besides just a wish for her presence. Jensen filed that for later. There were too many things to deal with now, and whatever House's motives, positive, negative, or mixed, for wanting Cuddy to sit in on the session, Jensen knew that challenging that as a starting point would be the quickest way right now to get House once more annoyed at him. "In the course of a case, Dr. House, do you ever come to a wrong conclusion that has to be modified later as you look at the evidence again?"

"All the time," House replied. "It's a process. But Christopher is dead, and we know how he died. There's nothing more to be done on that differential."

"But we're not looking at how he died, rather at your role in it." Jensen wrote down in smaller letters below Christopher's name the word Patrick. "Your description of Patrick to me a few weeks ago was a very telling one. You called him a first class manipulator, somebody who looks for any possible chink in other people's armor to make use of it. Fair enough?" House nodded. "The first thing to realize here is that legal paperwork aside, this is not primarily a legal battle. He will lose the legal case, based on medical evidence. So he must have other motives besides the money. Does that make sense?"

House nodded slowly. "Revenge?"

"Good possibility, as far as that goes." Jensen switched to red to write revenge next to Patrick's name. "Why would he want revenge on you?"

"Because the kid died, obviously."

"Think back to their interactions, Dr. House. We are assuming, of course, that Patrick is the guiding force behind this and has manipulated the boy's mother, but I think that's definitely a valid assumption. As you've described her, she would grieve on her own, of course, but she would not lash out like this. This must be Patrick. So think of Patrick's relationship with Christopher." House shivered slightly. "We'll get on to the abuse in a minute, but just from what you yourself observed, their interactions in the hospital room, the way Patrick talked to him and about him. Did Patrick seem loving and concerned about Christopher?"

House was starting to get into the process of this now in spite of himself. "No. The boy seemed more like an inconvenience to him than anything. He was annoyed that he was in the hospital, and he thought Christopher was just playing up an minor illness for attention."

"Right. There really did not seem to be loving concern there. So why would Patrick want revenge because Christopher died if Christopher as a person did not apparently matter that much to him?"

House considered that. "He did blame me, though. He was just glaring at me in the room, after Christopher died."

"_What _did he blame you for? Think back carefully, Dr. House. Why do you think Patrick was mad at you, assuming that concern for Christopher was not his primary reason?"

"I called CPS."

"Correct, but only partway there, I think. You challenged him. You stood up to his warped sense of authority, and you described him correctly to himself and also to others. What was your father's reaction to a challenge?"

House shuddered again, and Cuddy stroked his foot lightly. She was settling back herself and listening to this process now, intrigued. "He would strike back harder," House replied. "It just made everything worse."

"Precisely. That is what Patrick is trying to do here. He isn't motivated by grief over Christopher; he's motivated by a challenge to his arrogant self-image. He _must_ respond to such a challenge, either that or admit that it was valid, which he cannot do. To his eyes, he was not an abuser; he was strengthening Christopher, toughening him up." House tensed up there and flinched as the leg protested. "But he could not retaliate against you physically, although he did try once in the heat of the moment. He could not have hired someone to attack you, for instance. He needed the satisfaction of watching it himself, knowing that you knew it was him. He _needed_ that, to restore his self-perception. So how would he go after you, if beating down the challenge physically was not an option?"

House was trying to keep his mind working, although the memories were pressing in around the edges now. "He would . . . manipulate things. Like the mother, to get her to sue."

"Right. But you must realize that she is not the only person being manipulated by him in this lawsuit."

House thought that through for a moment, and they saw the concept click behind the blue eyes. "He's manipulating _me_?"

"Yes." Jensen switched back to black and wrote manipulation next to revenge. "That is what he's trying to accomplish by this case. Not a legal victory; he is fighting this battle not in the courts primarily but in your own mind. He is using your low self-esteem against you. So you need to be aware that you are being manipulated mentally, and that by someone who is extremely good at it. Some of the thoughts you are thinking are the ones that he wants you to think and might not be your own."

House was getting mad now; Cuddy and Jensen both could see it - and both were glad to.

"So," Jensen said, "let's look at things diagnostically. Patrick would never do this, delve into the factual evidence for each point. So any conclusions we come to here it can be safely stated are not his. Back to Christopher. He died of West Nile encephalitis." Jensen wrote down WNE in the Christopher column. "Medically, tell me again how bad that diagnosis is."

"Very bad," House replied. "There's no proven treatment for it, just supportive care."

"How did you treat Christopher? Think of the whole course, not just after you had the diagnosis."

"He was already getting low-level IVs, Tylenol, and antiemetics. I increased the rate on the IVs. We started antibiotics pretty soon after I had the case."

"Was his fever very high then?"

"Not dangerously high, not out of plain flu level, but it worried me. We ran cultures and tests, of course. When his fever continued to rise in spite of antibiotics, I switched to antivirals." House grinned briefly in memory. "Actually, Wilson challenged that one at one point that night. He thought maybe the antibiotics just hadn't had time to work and that I was jumping to viral too soon."

"Why did you make that jump in conclusion?"

"There was _no_ response to antibiotics. I went straight for big guns on antibiotics, too. If it was an infection, unless it was a truly bizarre one, it should have had some effect within a few doses, even if a preliminary one, even if the body was still fighting. But no response at all. It had to be viral."

"What else did you do to treat his symptoms?"

"As the fever continued to rise, we used a cooling blanket. We eventually used ice." House shivered again, feeling icy tendrils close down around him. Cuddy wrapped both arms firmly around his feet, stroking his ankle soothingly. "Of course, we worked out the clotting disorder, too. Once we had the WNE diagnosis, we used ribavirin, which is the specific antiviral that has been most effective against that, not that anything has been really consistently effective against it."

"So you throughout the day were continuing supportive care and fairly aggressive treatment, even before the diagnosis was made." House nodded. "How long did it take to diagnosis this? From the time you saw the case, considered just the flu, to the time of diagnosis, how long?"

House tallied it mentally. "Roughly 12 hours."

"That really doesn't sound very long. Also, you were working steadily through those 12 hours, not putting in an 8 to 5 day and then going home." Jensen turned to Cuddy. "Dr. Cuddy, tell me, purely from a medical standpoint, do you see anything wrong with that course of treatment?"

"No," she said firmly. "Anybody else would have been slower than that. He was actually ahead of several of the final symptoms. Christopher had the chance to respond to treatment if he could have."

"And is 12 hours unreasonable as a time-frame?"

"Not at all."

Jensen switched audience focus again. "So _medically_ speaking, Dr. House, what could you have done differently in this case?"

House hesitated, scrambling. "I . . . was distracted."

"Now _that_ is Patrick's thought. He's trying to get you to think that, both to weaken and scramble you and to defend himself and restore his threatened arrogance. But let's look at it for a moment. At what point, between you and your team, did testing on Christopher and attempt at diagnosis totally stop on that day?"

House looked away. "Never. But it could have gone faster."

"How do you know that?" House was studying his hands at this point. "You saw _potential_ for distraction. You then immediately made the decision - an _entirely correct_ decision - to compartmentalize the case and focus yourself on the medical aspects while handing off the abuse. So you saw the chance for distraction and dealt with it promptly, and even while you left the room to think this through and call CPS, you left your team members working on the medical case. How long was it from the time you left the room at first to the time you came back?"

"About 30 minutes."

"Which included a report to CPS. Dr. Cuddy, is 30 minutes an absurdly negligent time for a doctor to spend putting together suspicions and making a report to CPS?"

"No. It can take that long to make the actual report, depending on who you get entering data, what mood their computer system is in that day, several things. That's not unreasonable at all."

"So in spite of memories, which you handled exceptionally well, you never stopped or even delayed work medically."

"I . . . guess not."

"Now, down to the abuse claim itself. You've wondered if you actually were imagining things, correct?" House nodded after a moment. His eyes were still down. "_That_ is Patrick's thought, planted in your head. He's using your own past and the effects of it to manipulate you. About that, I want you to remember that you did _not_ choose to act when you met Patrick at my wedding, or in the elevator. You _only_ decided to go forward with that claim after meeting Christopher. Why?"

"He was afraid." House shivered again. He could still almost _feel_ the fear and confusion in the boy's eyes. "He was suddenly put in a world that made no sense. I . . . recognized that."

"Yes. But there is a world of difference between recognizing something and projecting something. Think back to Christopher. Remember the look in his eyes, the way he watched Patrick, the way he reacted to him. Were you only imagining that?"

House let his mind go back to that room. The silence lengthened for a minute. "No, damn it," he said sharply. "I _know_ he was being abused."

"Then don't let Patrick tell you otherwise. Your testimony carries more weight than his in this point. So looking at everything, where did you fail in Christopher's case?"

House looked at the whiteboard, working it through. "Nowhere?" he asked finally, almost as if a question.

"Correct." Jensen wrote NOWHERE in blue caps across the bottom of Christopher's section. "You did not fail on Christopher's case." He looked over at House, gauging. He really hated slamming all of this into one marathon session, but events were forcing his hand here. "Let's take a break for a minute."

Cuddy immediately agreed, gently moving House's feet aside and standing up. "I'm going to go look at the girls. You'd better stretch your leg a minute, Greg."

House slowly worked himself to a sitting position on the edge of the couch, his feet on the floor. The leg was stiffening up more than usual, thanks to Foreman. He ran one hand along it, feeling the bruising, and Jensen watched him but did not ask how he was feeling. House suddenly felt grateful for that. He stood, wavering for a minute, then took a few laps of the living room. Foreman did have great aim, even when drunk. House suddenly thought that Foreman probably was feeling horrible physically today, even worse than he himself was, and he smiled briefly.

"What?" Jensen asked, watching him.

"Just thinking that Foreman is probably hurting today himself. Physically, I mean."

"I'm sure he is."

Cuddy came back down the hall. "Are the girls still asleep?" House asked.

"Sleeping like babies."

House limped back to the couch and slowly stretched out again, Cuddy helping to prop the leg up. She took her position on the other side, and Jensen picked up the black marker and wrote a header for the other smaller portion of the board, the one at the top next to Christopher. The large bottom half remained blank.

SUICIDE

House sighed and closed his eyes.


	24. Chapter 24

Whatever kind of day House was having, it couldn't be worse than this one, Foreman thought.

He had awakened at nearly noon with a pounding headache, rebelling stomach, and mouth that tasted like the bottom of a bird cage, and none of that physical calamity was enough to successfully distract him from the gaping chasm at the center of his thoughts.

She was gone. Forever. And he himself had helped set up the situation that pushed her to that decision.

He shied away, trying to think of anything else, trying to distract himself. He started trying to clean up the bedroom, to remove the sheets and wash away the bloodstains, even while he could still hardly stay vertical without wanting to hurl. Kutner only made things worse, bustling around too loudly and too cheerfully and too helpfully, offering to clean up things himself. He also filled in the gaps in Foreman's memory from last night, which memory ended sitting at a bar. Foreman was at first surprised to hear that he had attacked House, then worried about his job, then wondered if perhaps the man hadn't had it coming after all. Assuming that the details in the legal challenge were true - and who could have made up things like that? Nailing somebody to the _floor_? - House had been overwhelmed with his own memories and not functioning well on the case. In fact, when Foreman thought back on it, he was sure that House hadn't been quite up to par, had been a bit more distracted, a bit more tense, subtle at the time, easy to see in retrospect. Yes, House probably took a share of the blame, too. It wasn't all Foreman's fault. Thus when Kutner wondered how poor House must be feeling today physically and suggested calling him to apologize, Foreman nearly bit his head off. Whatever House was feeling today, he no doubt deserved that and more.

As Foreman himself did.

No, he couldn't go there yet. So he cleaned in almost a frenzy, stopping a few times to throw up, ignoring his pounding head, trying to remove all evidence of her death and then of her life from the apartment. When Kutner expressed concern about this and finally, all offers to help refused, suggested that Foreman might want to make an appointment in the next few days with a grief counselor or a psychiatrist, the neurologist threw him out. Verbally at least; he was still too sick and dizzy to do it literally. But Kutner did finally slink away with the expression of a just-kicked puppy, and Foreman returned to cleaning. Anything except thinking.

Unfortunately, shortly after Kutner left, the phone rang. It was the helpful personnel at the morgue, requesting the name of a funeral home and reminding him that arrangements needed to be started. Foreman wound up picking a funeral home from the phone book just to shut the man up. Fine, the clerk said, he would call them to come get her, even though it was the weekend. Funeral homes, like hospitals, never closed.

The funeral. He had to plan the funeral. He remembered them discussing once, after House's father's death and the hassle involved to get him to that funeral, what he would want at his own. He had a plan, of course. He was organized. He was methodical. He had it all under control. She, remarkably for someone just diagnosed with an ultimately fatal disease, did not want to discuss funerals even in the far distant future. "I'm not done living yet," she had said, as if challenging fate to throw the switch before she herself was ready.

Last night, obviously, she decided she was now done living. However, he still had no idea what she would have wanted in the way of a funeral. He would have to go down tomorrow or Monday to talk to them. It would have to be closed casket, whatever else it was.

Foreman gave up cleaning the apartment and settled down on the couch with a full bottle of scotch. Damn House. He should have kept his own demons from interfering with his work.

(H/C)

Jensen took a moment to study House before kicking off the differential, part two. He knew this wasn't therapeutically ideal, not so much at once. He would go as far as he thought he could, then back off and continue tomorrow, but all of this had to be dealt with, and House being House, it needed to be addressed logically first before his mind would stop chewing that bone enough to let him even start to process the emotions. This weekend was their oasis before House would insist on going back to the hospital to work, which he would insist on the more so because the idea would terrify him, and he couldn't admit to that purely emotional, nonrational thought. Besides, the lawyer would probably ask for a conference fairly soon, too, which would be used for more than legal purposes. Carefully constructed phrases and cues by someone in the know could be quite effective mental daggers. The conference itself probably couldn't be avoided, since it was quite common in malpractice cases to have a meeting or two between the sides after actual filing but before a trial, and the judge would want to see where parties at least had tried to settle it out of court before taking up his time. Jensen would recommend keeping House out of the meetings, but he wasn't sure how far that recommendation would go, especially since the other side would specifically want House there and would try to manipulate him into going. The psychiatrist also was anticipating some further blow from Patrick within the next few days. They simply _had_ to get House more stabilized first.

Jensen had spent much of this morning while shopping trying to frame the best strategy. He'd finally decided to take the three big issues in increasing order of anticipated difficulty, to at least get some progress at first and start to relieve guilt as quickly as they could. Jensen had known he could probably get House logically on Christopher's case; medical facts were the main ones there. Thirteen's suicide would be much harder to reason through, as suicide by definition isn't logical. Hardest of all to deal with, Jensen thought, would be the subject of the large bottom half of that white board, the revelation of the abuse. House not only had the sense of guilt and shame common to almost all abuse victims; he also had John House's promise, drilled into him from early childhood up, that if anybody ever found out, John would kill his mother, and it would be his fault. The fact that that was no longer literally possible after John's death did nothing to lessen the horrible cumulative impact of the statement throughout House's childhood and far into adulthood. Dealing with the revelation of the abuse would be the largest obstacle, Jensen thought. He wondered if Patrick had even read John's promise in Blythe's psychiatrist's notes. Whether intentionally or just by chance, figuring exposure would be an issue for most abuse victims, Patrick could not have chosen a better primary weapon with which to shoot.

The psychiatrist started out with a gentle reminder. "First, remember what we are discussing here. We are examining _your_ role in these areas, not necessarily the area as a whole. We aren't going to get everything about this to make sense. Suicide does _not_ make sense. No analysis will ever answer all your questions."

House opened his eyes. "There _has_ to be an answer somewhere," he protested.

"Not everything has an answer," Jensen countered. "Remember a couple of weeks ago, the case you had right after Christopher? The bigamist?"

House grinned faintly at the memory. "Pompous, lying idiot."

"That's the one. You told me that at the end of that case, the second wife decided to stay with him. Not that he regretted his actions; she just did not truly believe that he was what you had proven he was, what he himself admitted at the end."

House shook his head, annoyed all over again. "I think _she_ needed a psychiatrist."

"She probably did, but the point is, she made an illogical, emotional decision. You couldn't understand it. You will _never_ understand it. Not everything can be understood. Have you had other family members, other patients through the years who came to a conclusion that left you shaking your head?"

Cuddy chuckled; she couldn't help herself. Both men looked at her. "All the time," she stated. "You should hear him sometimes. Actually, you probably do."

"I'm sure you hear more of the stories," Jensen replied, glad of the brief respite offered by the humor. House himself was smiling now. "You can't always explain people's actions, Dr. House. People don't always make sense."

House's eyes went back to the suicide column, and his smile faded. He still looked stubbornly resistant; he might admit that humanity sometimes didn't make sense, but he still thought that they _should._

Jensen picked up the marker. "Okay, you tell me on this one. How did you fail her? Not why did she kill herself, but how did _you_ fail?" Jensen felt that he was still missing some vital pieces of information, or the Housian version of it, on this topic.

House's eyes dropped to his hands in his lap again, and his tension level immediately kicked up several degrees.

"She was in the room when Dr. Foreman came to talk to her," Jensen suggested. "Do you blame yourself for that?"

"I . . . I assigned her to work with the family," House said softly.

"You've done that a lot of times, Greg," Cuddy reminded him. "You always assign somebody on the team to talk to the family."

"I usually . . . scramble them up. Don't usually _keep_ one person there."

"Why did you give her the continuing role with the family?" Jensen asked.

House still hadn't looked up. "At first, I thought Christopher's mother might feel better talking with another woman. Later because they were mad at me because of CPS."

"That makes perfect sense. You used to have another woman on your team among your former fellows. Dr. Cameron, I believe." House nodded. "In her fellowship, dd you ever utilize her gender to try to put patients or family at ease?"

"Yes, but . . ." House trailed off.

"Did you do that more than once with Dr. Cameron?"

"Yes."

"And sometimes inversely with the men, if you thought the person they'd be talking to would be more receptive to a male?"

"Yes, but those times were different."

"Because nothing bad happened afterward?"

House was starting to shiver again. "I should have mixed them up. I shouldn't have just _kept_ her there. I even noticed her worsening symptoms myself, and I _still_ kept her there."

"You've mentioned that she came to you later that night, after the diagnosis, and asked to be removed from patient and family contact. What was your response?"

"I agreed. But I should have done it earlier."

"Why?" House finally looked up there, meeting the psychiatrist's eyes. "You had no way of knowing the future. _On that day_, you chose not to restrict her work because of her physical symptoms until she specifically asked you to, and I for one think that was an extremely considerate and perceptive decision."

"Why?" Confusion warred with the guilt.

"Some days are worse than others with your leg. How do you feel when you are having a bad day at work and people try to pamper and accommodate you and make things easier?"

"It pisses me off."

"Exactly. With the exception of those extremely close to you, like Dr. Cuddy or Dr. Wilson, you want people to avoid drawing attention to your leg, and even with those two, there are limits. You do have a tendency to confuse compassion with pity, but either way, the point is a valid one. In the work setting, in public, it is far more respectful and far less demeaning to let someone with a disability define their own limits than to try to do it for them. You understand that. Your decision to keep her at work with the family until she asked otherwise was a compliment to her. I have no doubt she took it as one, too. She came to you that night. She respected how you had handled the situation all day. She _admired_ you for that, and you made it as easy as possible on her. Far better than Dr. Foreman awkwardly drawing attention to her while violating her confidentiality in front of witnesses."

House was thinking, even if in fits and starts. "You think she actually _appreciated_ being left there?"

"Yes, I do. You made it her decision."

"She said that night she didn't want more people looking at her like they did."

"But she said that after the case was over. I realize you were busy all day, but was there no point during that day when she could have taken 5 minutes aside to talk to you?"

"I . . . I guess she could have done it earlier."

"I imagine that finishing that case to diagnosis was a point of pride with her. She finished her last case on family work. Being pulled early would have been letting the disease win. Finishing the case and then _choosing_, on her terms, to not work that way on another one was her victory. You made it _her_ decision, and I am sure she appreciated that." Jensen wrote "granting her control" on the whiteboard.

House studied it, thinking through the situation. "Maybe. But in the end, it was just putting her in front of Patrick as a target."

"You're not omniscient, Dr. House. You can't read the future. If you could, for instance, you would have driven a different way home last year and avoided the intersection of the accident at that moment. Was the accident your fault because you failed to know a good while earlier it would occur?"

"No, but. . ." He shook his head. "I feel like I should have done something more to protect her."

"Tell me something, Dr. House. This is a guess on my part, but I have a feeling I'm right. When Dr. Foreman came in and got into a disagreement with her in front of the patient's family, you said that he refused to let the subject drop. How did that confrontation end?"

House replayed it, not having thought about that part of it for a few weeks. "I called Foreman off to let her escape to go get meds, and I gave him something else to do. It pissed him off, too. He knew I did it deliberately."

"You intervened to protect her."

"I . . . I suppose so. But you just said a minute ago that _not_ intervening was respecting her choice."

"That was referring to a general situation, her working with the family, not to a very specific and publicly humiliating confrontation. You intervened where you should have; you did _not_ intervene where you should not have, and I have no doubt she appreciated both the intervention and leaving the situation alone." Jensen wrote "letting her leave" underneath "granting her control." "Those are _both_ marks of a first-class supervisor, Dr. House. Honestly, the more I hear about that day and Christopher's case, the more I admire your handling of all aspects of it. You did well, both as a doctor and as a supervisor."

House didn't reply, which Jensen had expected; he always felt awkward dealing with a direct compliment. "The one serious error made involving her that day was not yours. You already said that yourself. Dr. Foreman violated her confidentiality." The psychiatrist switched colors to blue and wrote Foreman = violated confidentiality. "Unquestionably wrong, even legally punishable as a doctor. Any physician knew better. So is everything Patrick did after that his fault?"

House shook his head. "He made a stupid mistake, but Patrick probably would have looked up information on her anyway, like he did on me. Foreman just made it a lot easier."

"Precisely. He is responsible for his own error, and it was a significant one, but he is not responsible for other people's actions. Nor are you, Dr. House. Dr. Foreman has actual grounds to criticize his handling of things that day. You do not."

House was staring at his hands again. "I wish I could have made it turn out differently."

"I've wished that myself before," Jensen stated.

House looked up. "You mean . . . "

"I have had two patients in my career as a psychiatrist commit suicide. I caught myself dissecting the last session, the previous sessions, wondering if there had been any way of knowing, if I should have done something differently, but ultimately, I had to let it go. For whatever reasons, they made their choice, and that choice was not my fault. Just as this is not yours."

House was looking thoughtful. Jensen decided to leave that for the moment, and he carefully approached another necessary land mine. "I need to ask you something, though." He waited until House looked up. "At any point in the last day since receiving those papers, have you yourself thought of suicide?"

Cuddy gave a gasp of horror, unable to sit through that one, and Jensen held out a hand, cutting off her comment. He didn't want to take his eyes off House at the moment to look directly at her. House was studying his hands again. "I _need_ an answer to that question, Dr. House," Jensen insisted.

"Not actively," House replied slowly. He looked up, feeling the waves of shock and concern coming off Cuddy, and his eyes found her, not Jensen. "I won't," he promised.

"But the thought did cross your mind," Jensen stated. "In general as one of the options, you mean?"

"Yes. It's . . . part of the differential. Places I could go from here. But I tossed out that option after thinking about it."

"Why?" Jensen persisted.

"I could never put my family through that." He was still looking at Cuddy, trying to convince her, feeling guilty now for the added worry in her eyes.

"Okay. I believe you," Jensen stated. "I know that you have tried to hurt yourself, though."

"The gating mechanism . . ." House started.

Jensen shook his head. "That isn't all there was to it. You thought you deserved to hurt." House looked away from Cuddy, unable to watch her face anymore. "Is that why you didn't want the medicines last night?" Jensen asked.

House nodded after a moment. "It seemed . . . too easy." Cuddy shook her head, wondering how anything from last night, with or without meds, could possibly be construed as letting himself off easy.

"Did that work?" Jensen asked, politely insistent.

"NO," House snapped, suddenly annoyed. "It didn't work, and you might have noticed that I realized that myself and haven't tried it since."

"Good." Jensen studied him, then set the whiteboard aside, taking it off his lap and leaning it up against the base of the chair. "You've had enough of this for today."

Cuddy nodded - House was quivering like a leaf right now - but House surprisingly objected. "Wait a minute. Three sections of the board. What comes third?"

"You know what comes third," Jensen replied.

"I want to go ahead and finish this," House insisted.

"No," the psychiatrist stated. "We've pushed it enough today. We'll continue tomorrow." House shook his head, getting his stubborn look. "Dr. House, working through things logically does not replace emotional pain. It simply opens the door to allow it - for you, anyway. Most people skip logic as the first step at all and run straight to emotions. But working out that third issue logically is not going to make everything finished with, anymore than talking through Dr. Hadley's suicide exempts you from continuing to feel grief."

House was obviously thinking up an appropriate retort to that when Abby woke up. Cuddy got quickly to her feet. "I'll go get the girls. It's almost time to start dinner, anyway. Let's rest for a while, Greg; we can go on tomorrow." She, like Jensen, sensed that he was near the end of his mental endurance at the moment.

House shifted over to sit up on the edge of the couch cushion, still looking annoyed. If he _had_ to go through this, he'd rather get it all over with today.

"You're doing very well with this," Jensen commented. "We are making progress. You've come a very long way in therapy."

Just then the main phone rang. Cuddy was back in the nursery with the girls, and House heaved himself to his feet with a hiss of pain, suddenly appreciating the fact that Jensen didn't jump up and retrieve the cordless to hand it to him. Maybe he had a good point about allowing Thirteen to control the limits of her disability. Getting his feet firmly under him, he limped over to pick it up from the end table on the far end of the couch. His thoughts still on Thirteen, he didn't look at caller ID before hitting the button. "Hello?"

"Greg!" It was Cuddy's mother, but her voice carried such agitation that he felt his stomach clench even tighter, and he felt a further stab of guilt for hoping that Susan's crisis was something completely new that had no connection to Patrick Chandler.

No such luck. "Greg! Oh my God, are you okay?"

"Um . . ." He didn't even get down to framing a response. She was charging ahead at such volume that even Jensen could hear her voice, if not the exact words.

"Greg, you won't believe what we got in the mail this afternoon! Papers that said . . . oh my God, is it true? Did your father actually nail you to the floor? Oh Greg, you poor thing, I am _so, so _sorry."

House snapped. All of the tension of the last 24 hours suddenly hit boiling point. He whipped around like a pitcher in a windup, automatically changing trajectory to avoid the piano in the corner, and threw the phone with every ounce of force he could muster straight at the front window. The cordless hit the glass with a crash, one whole corner of the window shattering, and continued its flight out onto the front lawn. House's leg had yelped and seized up as he spun, and it gave way just after the throw was completed. Even as he felt himself falling and started to clutch at the back of the couch, he heard the silvery crash of the shattered window, followed by a wordless shout and the heavy beat of running footsteps down the hall, and his mind jumped straight back to childhood. He stopped trying to save himself and wrapped both arms tightly around his body, landing already curling up, waiting helplessly for the blows to fall.


	25. Chapter 25

Short update as an apology for the cliffhanger. :) Next chapter, Wilson arrives like the cavalry, prepared to save the day in his inimitable style.

(H/C)

Back in the nursery, Cuddy had been enjoying her daughters, a nice reminder of innocence in the world, a refreshing break after the dark discussions of abuse and suicide. Jensen's final question to House had rocked her, and her own hands had been shaking in reaction when she reached the nursery, enough that she left Abby in the crib to change her instead of picking her up right away. Of course, she knew House had tried to hurt himself now and then, had a history of that, but actually to consider suicide himself, to list it out as "part of the differential," shook her up to her core. With all his questionable behavior in the past, she had never before heard him openly admit to thinking about the act. She was reassured by his promise, but still, that had been a jolting reminder of all his issues, past and still present. Marriage and happiness had not just erased them. Okay, she knew it wasn't that easy, but part of her wished that it could have been. At least he had directly discussed it with Jensen, which further reassured her that he did not actually intend to act.

She was in awe of Jensen. Sitting there watching the psychiatrist skillfully, calmly direct the conversation and thoughts, adapting to House's framework to try to get through to him, had been a lesson in patient-client relationship. Of course, she knew that they had had a year and a half of steady sessions now; today would never have been possible at the beginning, not with Jensen, not with anybody. But actually seeing the psychiatrist at work professionally, which she never had before, was an eye-opener. The man was truly as much of a genius in his field as House was in diagnostics.

She was just finishing changing Abby's diaper when the phone rang. It rang a few times, and she felt a twinge of sympathy for Greg, getting up on his bruised leg and limping over to it. He obviously did get it eventually, though, as the ringing stopped. Rachel was awake too now, and Cuddy, feeling a little steadier, picked her up and put her in Abby's high-sided crib. Rachel was in a phase the last month where she enjoyed trying to "help" with changing Abby by assisting with fastening the adhesive tabs on the diapers.

The abrupt sound of shattering glass shattered her domestic mood. In that moment, Cuddy forgot completely about Jensen being already there; the immediate, all-consuming thought was that something had happened to her husband. "Back in a minute, Rachel," she gasped even as she turned and bolted for the door. The girls wouldn't like being trapped in Abby's crib, but they would be safe, and she wasn't sure what she'd find in the living room or whether they needed to see it.

House was on the floor just behind the couch, arms wrapped around himself, eyes closed, his whole body shaking. Jensen had just gotten there and was dropping to his knees as Cuddy completed her record-breaking hall dash and burst into the living room herself. "Greg!" She ran the short remaining distance, and he cringed, drawing further into himself at her brisk footsteps. Both when she touched him and when Jensen did, he flinched away. He was having a flashback, obviously, and Cuddy forced herself to speak soothingly, forced her hands to relax, even while the adrenaline and worry were both still pulsing through her with every heartbeat. "Greg. It's me. Just me." She pulled him over onto her lap, and Jensen let her take the lead, although he stayed right there.

The psychiatrist did ask one soft question. "Are the girls safe?"

Cuddy nodded quickly, her full attention on her husband. "Easy, Greg. It's okay. I'm here, and your father isn't." She hugged him against her. What the hell had happened? She'd only been out of the room a few minutes, and yes, he had been close to the edge when she left, but that was why Jensen insisted on stopping for the day.

The phone call. It must have been the phone call. She suddenly remembered the sound of shattering glass, and she quickly did a visual inspection of her husband. No obvious blood pooling anywhere, no visible wounds. "What broke?" she asked softly. "Did he cut himself?"

Jensen shook his head. "He threw the phone through the front window. His leg gave out as he made the throw, and he was falling, but I think the sound of breaking glass is what triggered it." And possibly the footsteps, but Jensen didn't mention that, not wanting Cuddy to feel guilty for something she couldn't help. But House had been trying to save himself from falling in that first instant until the sounds, and at that point, he had totally stopped resistance and retreated inward.

Cuddy hugged House more tightly against her. "It's okay, Greg. Easy." A window could be replaced. She felt the tremors sweeping over him slowly start to lessen. "Easy, Greg. I'm here. It's okay."

Jensen watched him closely, still prepared to go retrieve the bottle of Ativan if needed, but he thought House was starting to come out of it. Of all the horrible timing. The psychiatrist hadn't been able to hear Susan's exact words on the phone, but he definitely got enough to recognize both her voice and her agitation, and he could fill in the blanks himself, especially given House's response. Her first impulse must have been trying to comfort him over the enormity of his past, which was of course the completely wrong strategy. Clearly, Patrick hadn't waited for next week to take further steps. Anger flared through the psychiatrist at this nearly scientific malicious dissection of someone's mind. _You aren't going to destroy him_, he promised silently. _Not if I have anything to say about it._

House had nearly stopped shivering now, and they both knew he was aware of his surroundings again, although he still kept his eyes shut. "Greg, did you hurt yourself falling?" Cuddy asked gently.

He shook his head, eyes still closed, not looking at them. "I broke your window," he mumbled, barely audible.

"_My_ window?" Cuddy started to jump on that, annoyed at the assumption behind it, and Jensen shook his head sharply. _Later_, he mouthed silently.

He was right, of course. She'd discuss the implications of that possessive with her hard-headed, annoyingly dense for such a genius at times husband later. She forced herself to relax. "It doesn't matter, Greg. It's just a window."

He opened his eyes then, the blue microscope assessing her, analyzing her reaction. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Forget about it; I'm not mad. Who was on the phone?" she asked.

House shivered again and looked away. "Your mother," Jensen supplied. "Let me guess. Did she get a copy of the paperwork somehow?"

House nodded. "She . . . she was feeling _sorry_ for me." He scrambled up more into a sitting position, flinching as he moved his leg, and twisted to look at the shattered glass. "I just couldn't take it. I'm sorry."

Cuddy sighed. "You have nothing to apologize for. _She_, on the other hand . . . I'll deal with her later."

"Might I suggest unplugging the phone?" Jensen asked. Cuddy and House both nodded vigorously, and Jensen stood to go over to the base on the table and unsnap the cord. "You might want to turn off your cell phones, too."

"Lisa would never . . ." House started and then trailed off in amazement as Cuddy quickly withdrew her cell phone from her pocket and almost viciously punched off. "What if the hospital needs you?"

"Greg, if the hospital needs me tonight, they can fire me and hire somebody else who cares," she said firmly. "You and the girls are here, and that's all I care about."

"Speaking of the girls," Jensen said, and they all suddenly became aware of the background of crying, "would you like me to go get them?"

"I'd better. They already wonder what's going on; don't want them to think something happened to me." Cuddy gently moved House aside and stood up. "Can you get up, Greg?"

He tried, failed, and then silently held out his hands, and Cuddy and Jensen pulled him up. "Did you hurt yourself?" Cuddy asked again.

He shook his head. "Just annoyed it. 'Sokay." He limped heavily to the couch.

"I'll be back in a minute," she promised. "Then we'll get you some meds; you're nearly due for them anyway." She quickly hurried back up the hall, the footsteps echoing, and House flinched. He looked again at the window, then back to Jensen.

"That wasn't quite the plan for the evening."

Jensen smiled. "No, it wasn't. But it was perfectly understandable, especially after the afternoon you've had."

House shuddered. "That bastard mailed copies. _Everybody _knows." He pulled out his own cell phone and switched it off. He couldn't take another call like that one tonight.

_Just a weakling_.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow, Dr. House. You've definitely had enough on the subject of Patrick for today." Jensen sat back down in the chair.

House's eyes drifted to the window again. "I broke a window once," he said softly. "Accidentally. Playing ball with a friend. Actually he was the one who made that throw, but I missed catching it. He ran away, and I was just standing there looking in . . . and I could hear Dad running down the hall, the footsteps coming, and I knew what was going to happen. He broke my ribs that time." House shuddered again. "Is this _ever_ going to end?"

"You'll keep moving past it. Just like you are doing. You're making very good progress, and the wounds will fade to scars ultimately. It _will_ get better." House ran one hand across the canyon of the scar on his leg and flinched. More meds sounded like a good idea right now. He'd strained the leg somewhat falling.

Footsteps down the hall again, this time rapid, light, innocent, the footsteps of the present and not the echoes of the past. Rachel burst into the living room at full gallop, the delay already forgotten. She had simply accepted her mother's reassurance that something had broken. "Dada!" She bounded over to the couch.

House lifted her up onto it. "Hi, kid." She attached herself to his chest, hugging him, and he hugged her back fiercely.

Cuddy appeared carrying Abby and handed her to her husband. "I'll go get some meds. Then let's get something to eat, okay? What about pizza?"

"Pizza!" Rachel approved.

House looked at Jensen. "Nice, normal family Saturday night. The husband, the wife, the kids, the psychiatrist, all sitting down to dinner."

Jensen gave him a sympathetic smile without a trace of pity in it. "Don't forget the ice cream," he admonished.

"Ice cream!" Rachel agreed, and looking down at his daughters, House felt himself start to relax a fraction.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: For those who aren't musical buffs, Brigadoon was a village with a charm placed on it that made it visible only one day every 100 years, and its nights were 99 years 364 days long. Rent the movie sometime and watch it; truly charming love story and some decent music.

(H/C)

Wilson arrived about dark. He opened the front door himself, too agitated to wait for an answer to a knock, and propelled himself into the living room, then stopped abruptly. He had been constructing scenarios all the flight home about the state in which he would find things with House's biggest secret public knowledge and Thirteen for whatever reason - he was still missing vital details here - having killed herself. The way Cuddy had abruptly ended the phone call earlier only added to his dread. But in all the scenarios his imagination had constructed, all the ways in which he had been preparing himself to step up as House's friend, he had never expected to walk straight into what was apparently family movie night.

House was stretched out full length on the couch, his head in Cuddy's lap. A bowl of popcorn was propped next to his left shoulder, and both she and he were munching from it. Rachel was sitting on House's stomach, eyes glued to the TV. Belle was curled up on his feet. Other than the heating pad draped across his thigh and the pillow under his knee, nothing looked unusual at first glance. On second glance, he looked tense, and Cuddy looked worried, although both were trying to hide it. It was only as the oncologist took another few steps into the room that he spotted the occupant of the armchair with its back to him. Jensen sat there, with Abby sitting in his lap, both of them facing the TV. The psychiatrist's own bowl of popcorn was propped across his lap.

Cuddy looked up at him. "Hi, Wilson. How was the oncology conference?"

Wilson blinked. How was the _conference_? Was there a crisis here or not? Did it only appear like Brigadoon at intervals? "It was, um, conferency. I came straight from the airport, soon as I could. What the hell is going on here?"

"We're watching the Aristocats," House stated. He took another bite from the bowl and spoke with his mouth full. "Want some popcorn?"

"No, I want to know what's been happening. Thirteen committed suicide? And Chandler? What's going on?"

Jensen set his bowl aside and stood up, walking over to sit Abby up next to her sister, on top of House, her back propped against the back cushion. "If you like, I'll give James here an update on everything." Cuddy nodded gratefully. "Is it all right if I talk to him about what all has happened, Dr. House?"

"Go ahead," House said, his eyes glued to the cartoon.

"And do you mind if I show him the paperwork?"

"Why not? Hell, he can probably read it in the New York Times tomorrow," House snapped, with a suddenly brittle edge appearing under his voice. Cuddy ran one hand down his upper arm in a silent gesture of support.

"Come back into the guest room," Jensen advised, going over to pick up the lawsuit from the desk on his way. "That way we won't disrupt the movie."

"Oh yes, let's _not_ disrupt the movie," Wilson retorted, but he followed Jensen to the first spare room, then blinked as he walked in, taking in the clothes and shaving accessories set out neatly. "You're staying here?"

"For the moment, yes." Jensen closed the door firmly, then turned to face Wilson. "James, I'm glad you're here. Dr. House is going to need a friend. But you need to be aware that he's already been pushed too far today, and he literally can't take anything more tonight. The Aristocats is about as much mental energy as he has left. Be very careful with him."

Wilson paced across the room and back. "Things really are as bad as he said this morning?"

"I don't know what he told you, but I'd say probably things are worse." Jensen extended the paperwork to Wilson. "Read that for starters."

Wilson read it, eyes widening in horror, then read it again. "Oh, my God." His legs suddenly felt weak, and he more or less collapsed onto the end of the bed. "_This_ was sent all over the hospital?"

Jensen nodded. "It was also apparently mailed to some people. We don't know how far it's gone. Dr. Cuddy tried to retrieve as many hospital copies as she could."

Wilson ran his fingers through his hair. "Oh, my God," he repeated. "This is . . . I nearly _killed_ him telling Blythe. And this is worse."

"Far worse," Jensen agreed.

"At least Cuddy called you in after he was served."

"No, she didn't. He came to me initially." Jensen deleted several details there. "But then he was notified about Dr. Hadley and about the papers being generally distributed, and from that point last night, my main concern was trying to keep him alive. Not that he was suicidal, but he definitely wasn't safe. He was completely overwhelmed and off balance. I wouldn't have left him last night, and I still don't intend to until the situation is stabilized some more. I'm telling you this because you must understand how raw he is right now. He badly needs you, but you _must_ be careful in dealing with him. No matter how agitated or overwhelmed you are yourself, do _not_ exhibit that."

Wilson shook his head. "My God." It was like a refrain at this point. "Thirteen . . . she really killed herself?"

"Yes. Obviously, she couldn't face the battle on her part."

"House . . . House has tried suicide before, I think. At least once. You probably ought to know that."

"He adamantly denies active suicidal ideation at the moment. I asked him."

Wilson started to look relieved, but the expression froze halfway. "He denies _active_ suicidal ideation? Meaning the thought _did_ occur to him, but he's not planning to act on it at the moment?"

"I don't think he's an acute risk," Jensen replied.

Wilson sighed. "Does Cuddy know that? That the idea even crossed his mind, I mean?"

"Yes."

The oncologist got back to his feet and resumed pacing. "Chandler . . . he has to be behind this. He's deliberately trying to crush him."

Jensen sighed in his turn. "Actually, I think one of Patrick's hoped-for best results _was _to induce suicide, but that one succeeded on the wrong target. She was only mentioned because she was conveniently available with a weakness he had noticed. It's Dr. House he's after."

"Oh, my God." Wilson hit the end of his pace track and turned. "House said Foreman attacked him."

"He blamed him for Dr. Hadley's death."

"Did he hurt him? I noticed the heating pad."

"He hit him and kicked him in the leg. It's bruised but not too severely, hopefully should be okay in a few days."

"In his _leg_?" Wilson shook his head. "Cuddy will have Foreman's head on a platter. So Foreman got this paperwork, too?"

"Dr. House's whole team got it. So did the board. We aren't sure how many people besides, but Dr. Cuddy retrieved 49 copies from the hospital."

Wilson's eyes widened. "_49 copies?_"

"And, as I said, it was mailed to some people apparently. Dr. Cuddy's parents received it, for instance. By the way, after her mother called, we unplugged and switched off all the phones at the moment, so don't bother calling them. That will most likely extend through the weekend. We have to buy some time for him to start to get a grip on things."

"My God." Wilson collapsed on the edge of the bed again. "What on earth are we going to do?"

"The best thing you can do is simply to be there, be a friend for him. But you must do it calmly."

The oncologist nodded rapidly. "Right, okay, I can be calm." He ran his hands through his hair again. "Oh, my God."

Jensen sighed. "Get it all out with me. When you go back in that room, you _have_ to be calm, steady, and supportive."

"Do you think he can survive this?"

"Actually, I'm encouraged by how he's handling it so far. Things could be worse." Wilson, remembering the psychiatrist's statement that he had been basically glued to House for the last 24 hours to keep him safe, wondered what the version of worse would look like.

"He's got Cuddy," Wilson said suddenly. "She'll help him. She'll fight for him, too."

"His family and support system are going to be what gets him through this. You're a valuable part of that support system, too."

Wilson nodded. "I'll be there for him. My God. No wonder he wasn't even hearing my crisis when I called him earlier."

Jensen immediately looked concerned. "What was your crisis?"

Wilson looked away. "I'm almost ashamed to call it one now. It's nothing compared to this."

"What is it, James? Crises aren't exclusive; the fact that somebody else is having one doesn't mean you can't have your own."

"Well . . . I've been at an oncology conference, you know. I was feeling down after visiting Danny Wednesday night, too. Last night, I wound up down in the bar at the hotel drinking, and this morning, I sort of woke up in the wrong bed."

Jensen sighed. "Have you told Sandra yet?"

"Are you _nuts_? She'll kick me to the curb. She'll roast my testicles on a stick at the next barbecue."

"Maybe. But James, trust me, if you want _any_ chance of repairing this relationship, you need to admit your fault to her and take whatever punishment she needs to give - going to couple's counseling, her moving out for a while, withholding sex."

Wilson flinched. "Maybe she won't find out. I mean, it's not like we exchanged names and are going to be looking each other up; this was just a one-night stand at a hotel while we were both drunk. It won't happen again."

"That's a lousy strategy. It's also denying your history; you can't just pretend this didn't happen. First, you aren't as good at concealing things as you think, and second, even if she didn't eventually find out, you would know. A lie in a relationship, even if only one half knows about it, still impacts the whole. And the longer you delay in telling her, the more she will be hurt by it when she finds out. Your best strategy is immediate confession and then letting her set the punishment, followed by stronger efforts to work on your tendency toward unfaithfulness."

"What if she never wants to see me again?"

"That's a risk you'll have to take. Trust me, the _best_ chance you have for the future here is to go to her immediately and tell her without excuse. You've already made two excuses even in telling me now, first that you had a bad visit with Danny this week, second that you got drunk. Neither of those excuses a lack of self-control. You chose to walk into that bar and drink too much, for example. Voluntarily choosing to give up responsibility still holds you responsible for the results of that decision. Dr. Foreman was drunk last night when he attacked Dr. House, and that doesn't excuse his actions, either, nor does his grief. They might make it more understandable, but they do not excuse it, as there are plenty of grieving people in the world, even ones touched by suicide, who have made it through that process without getting drunk and assaulting their disabled boss. You need to talk to Sandra about this as soon as possible. Then, honestly and diligently work on your self control issues. We've been focusing more on Danny lately, and we've let that aspect slide off the radar. We shouldn't have. I do think couple's counseling might be beneficial, too, but that is her choice. I know a good couple's counselor in Trenton."

Wilson was sitting on the edge of the bed taking this in. "Boy, you're harsh tonight," he protested.

"I've had a long day," Jensen reminded him, "but that's irrelevant. I'd give you the same advice in any office session if you told me this. You need to talk to her."

"I actually tried to talk to House, but that didn't work."

"Dr. House when you called earlier today was not only totally consumed, understandably, by his own crisis, he was also still under the influence of drugs somewhat. He had an extremely rough night last night trying to sleep."

"I could tell he wasn't up to par, but I wasn't talking about then. I tried calling him yesterday from the hotel at one point, just wanted to talk about how I was feeling more down about Danny. Wanted him to cheer me up in his convoluted way; he's really pretty good at that. We'd talked about it Thursday over lunch. But yesterday, he didn't answer. Maybe talking would have changed things."

Jensen came sharply to attention. "What time was this?"

"Let's see. . . about 1:20 yesterday afternoon."

Jensen did some quick mental math. "He would have just gotten the papers. Dr. Cuddy said later it took her a while to find him, as he wasn't answering her calls. He said, no doubt truthfully, that he simply didn't hear the phone."

"That makes sense. I didn't know what was going on back here, of course. Just wanted to talk to him. But he didn't pick up, and then later on I went into the bar last night, like I said, and one thing just led to another."

"Are you actually suggesting that part of the blame for your cheating last night rests on him for not taking a phone call hours earlier?" Jensen's eyes were glittering suddenly, and Wilson looked up, startled. The psychiatrist looked genuinely angry for the first time in a year and a half that Wilson could recall.

"I . . . no, I wasn't blaming House. I was just saying, if I _had_ talked to somebody, I was just wondering if things would have been different."

"Did you tell him this morning you tried to call him yesterday?"

"I don't _think_ so. I'm not sure what exactly I said; I was panicked and hungover at the same time. But I doubt he knows what I said, either; he was in worse shape mentally than I was."

"Let's hope so. He hasn't mentioned it; hopefully it either didn't come up, or he didn't hear. Do _not_ tell him that."

Wilson was getting annoyed. "I told you, it's not like I'm blaming him. I just said I called him, not that everything was his fault. That's a fact, not a dodge."

"James, if you _ever_ tell him that you tried to call him Friday afternoon before cheating later that night, I will drop you from my practice as a patient." Wilson's head snapped up, and he looked at Jensen, astonished. "He does not need one more burden of guilt put onto him right now, especially an unjust one."

"But I wasn't trying to blame him."

"Yes, you were. Maybe not consciously, but at least subconsciously. Your exact statement was that maybe that would have changed things, and then that he didn't pick up, and later you went into a bar, and one thing led to another. That's an entire string of disguised excuses for your behavior. You aren't allowing yourself to call it that, but you _are_ trying to mitigate your own responsibility by pushing part of the blame onto other people and the sequence of events. And I'm telling you, he does not need that, does not deserve it, and cannot handle it right now, and if you mention that phone call Friday, whether you blame him in so many words or not, I will stop seeing you."

Wilson was still looking stunned. The world had truly gone crazy tonight. To have Jensen of all people, ever calm and polite, giving him an ultimatum and looking downright angry, though still controlled, as he said it was like encountering the bridge crew of the starship _Enterprise_ in the clinic as he opened an exam room door. It simply didn't fit into his frame of reference. "I . . . okay, I won't mention it to him."

"Good. I will know if you do, because trust me, right now, Dr. House would immediately multiply it out exponentially into added guilt, and I'll be able to tell. Think about what I've said, though. You are trying subconsciously to blame other things. That is exactly what you cannot do with Sandra. I repeat, the _best_ chance of your relationship ultimately surviving this is for you to confess your fault without any attempt at all at excuse, take your punishment, and commit to working even harder on your self-control issues - and then actually following up and doing so."

Wilson sighed and looked at his watch. "We'd better get back out there."

"You're deflecting."

"Deflecting or not, I've got a point. We don't want him to start wondering what else we're talking about in here."

Jensen considered that, then nodded. "Watch your step with him, James; he's very fragile right now. But I'm glad you're back. He needs you."

Wilson looked back down at the paperwork, resting beside him on the bed. "My God." House's crisis once more flooded his mind, pushing his own to the background for the moment. He shook his head as if to clear it, then stood up, and Jensen opened the bedroom door.

Together the two men re-entered the living room. The movie was about two-thirds done now, and Abby and Rachel were both asleep on top of House. Nonetheless, he and Cuddy were simply still watching the cartoon, not talking, although her hand never left his upper arm, where it was tracing slow, soothing circles. "Glad you're back," House said. "It's just getting to the good part."

Wilson heard the coiled spring behind the calm words. _My God_, he thought again, more a prayer this time than a curse. How was House going to deal with all this? He tilted his head, abruptly realizing that that wasn't just a shadow in the corner of the front window but rather a homemade patch across a section of the glass. He wrenched his eyes away and did not ask. "Did you eat all the popcorn yet?"

"No, but this is our bowl. You can share with Jensen." House's eyes were glued to the screen. Rachel herself had never watched it with such rapt attention.

Wilson sat down in one chair, Jensen in the other, and the psychiatrist passed the bowl to him. The oncologist took a mouthful of popcorn and sat there watching - and not really seeing - the last third of the Aristocats. The largest part of his mind was working frantically on the Chandler problem, and the remaining small corner was wondering if there really was any alternative to telling Sandra about last night.

(H/C)

Once the movie was over, they talked idly about peripheral topics like sports for a while, but Jensen stood up before long and said he was going to bed early. Wilson took the not-so-subtle cue and agreed that he was worn out himself. He did carry Rachel down the hall to the nursery while Cuddy took Abby. House had just made it up to his feet when Wilson returned to the living room. The oncologist watched him walk a few steps and tried to keep himself from wincing in sympathy. Foreman's efforts showed. "Come around tomorrow afternoon, and we'll watch a movie or something," House said.

"Sure. Sounds like a good idea," Wilson agreed.

"Glad you're back," House tossed over his shoulder as he limped toward the hall, carefully waiting until his back was to Wilson to say that. Wilson smiled and felt the warm rush of being needed. Even backhanded compliments from House were rare. "One more thing, Wilson."

"What's that, House?"

"On your way out, could you see if you can find the phone?"

"The . . . phone?"

"Electronic gadget, rings, you talk into it. One of those. It's out on the front yard somewhere."

"The phone is on the front yard somewhere?"

"Right. If you trip over it, just pick it up and take it with you. You can give it back to us tomorrow. Night." House had delivered this whole speech while advancing down the hall, and the bedroom door shut firmly on the last word.

Wilson shook his head. He wondered if the phone's presence on the front yard was related to the broken window, but he didn't ask. Not today, anyway. "Good night, House," he called, and he turned and left, locking the door behind him.

Five minutes later, Cuddy entered the bedroom, having gotten the girls changed into sleepers and tucked in. She switched on the monitor and studied House, who was stretched out on the bed still fully clothed. "Aren't you going to get undressed?"

"Saving up energy for it," House replied. He rubbed his eyes. "I didn't even wake up until noon. Don't know what's wrong with me."

Cuddy sat down on the bed next to him. "You've had an awful day. But it's over now, and this one, at least, you'll never have to go through again." She started to unbutton his shirt.

"Going to put me to bed like the girls?"

"Not much danger of getting you confused, believe me." He shifted, helping her a bit, and she took the shirt off, then removed his pants and studied the leg. He propped up on an elbow to look at it himself. It was slightly swollen, dark, and angry-looking. Cuddy switched down to his foot, checking distal circulation just to make sure.

"It's just bruised," House reassured her. "It'll be okay."

"It probably wouldn't hurt to use the morphine tonight instead of just Vicodin. You'll sleep better."

"I was going to take the sleeping pill."

"That doesn't do anything for pain. Please, Greg. You need a good night's sleep tonight." She knew she did, too. Last night had been one collective nightmare, and she hoped to never have to repeat it.

He sighed. _Just a weakling_. "Okay."

She came back up to his head to kiss him. "Thank you. And it's not because you can't deal with things; it's because you're hurt."

Tears welled up in his eyes suddenly. "I'm sorry about all of this."

"It's not your fault, but we'll talk more tomorrow." She went into their bathroom for the meds. "For the rest of tonight, we aren't allowed to talk about anything that matters. Okay?"

He shook his head. "No deal. Can't possibly live up to that one."

"Greg, don't be a stubborn idiot."

"I love you," he said. "See, that matters. Wouldn't want to miss hearing that, would you?"

His quirky romantic streak always melted her heart when it chose to make its infrequent appearances. "Okay, we'll make that the exception. I love you, too." She gave him the injection and then handed him the sleeping pill, and he gulped it down dry, ignoring the glass of water she offered, his lips twisting slightly in acknowledgment of her exasperation. Then she got undressed herself and slid into bed next to him. It was only 9:30. Maybe they could both get some sleep tonight. She pulled him tightly against her, still feeling the tension still in him.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"For what?"

"For being there."

She kissed him. "I will _always_ be there, Greg. I mean it. Always." She could feel his shoulders start quivering slightly again, and she pulled him against her, just holding him. "And today is over, Greg. We made it. We survived. We _will _survive."

His muscles started to relax as the drug swept through them. "Good night, Lisa."

"Good night, Greg." Emphasis on good. Please let this be a good night, she thought. She held herself back deliberately from sleep, though, watching him breathe, watching those pain lines smooth out somewhat.

Then, when she was sure he was solidly out, she sat up in bed, stuck a pillow behind her back, retrieved her cell phone from the nightstand, switched it on, and called her mother.


	27. Chapter 27

Susan picked up halfway through the second ring. "Lisa? Is Greg all right? What happened?" There was genuine concern in her voice. House had been a favorite of hers ever since he brought his piano to his wedding.

Cuddy bit back the first few potential responses to that simply because she wasn't sure that even a morphine and zolpidem cocktail was enough to allow House to sleep through phone murder. He needed his rest. "He basically hung up on you. What the hell do you think?" she snapped. "That would convey a lot of meaning to me, top of the list being _leave me alone_." She had a lot of tension built up from the last day, and here was a prime target as long as she kept it reasonably quiet.

"I tried calling back after I finally hung up, but you didn't answer. Did somebody get hurt? I heard glass break. Lisa?"

"He threw the phone through the window."

"Threw the phone . . . maybe I should have talked to you first, but I was so worried about him. I called the main number, though, not his cell."

"If you'd called me like that jumping off the deep end, I probably would have thrown the phone clear into the street in front of a car."

"Is he okay, Lisa? How's he doing?" Susan was insistent, and Cuddy could picture her mother from childhood, firmly guiding all conversations, chin up firmly.

Cuddy's own chin jutted out in determination. "Right now, he's asleep, and the only reason I haven't blasted your eardrums out yet is that I want him to stay that way. What the hell did you say to him?"

"I just wanted to know if it was true and to tell him how sorry I was."

Cuddy closed her eyes. "In those exact words?"

"I said . . . let me think . . . I asked if it was true that his father had nailed him to the floor and told him I was so sorry. I didn't mean to upset him; just wanted to let him know I was there for him."

Cuddy reached across to stroke House's cheek in apology for her family. She sighed.

"Is it true, Lisa? How could somebody do that?"

"Whether it's true or not is his business."

"But we're _family._" Cuddy gritted her teeth and wondered if you could divorce your parents. "It's true, isn't it? Nobody could make that up."

"All right, Mom, listen up and listen good. If you EVER want to see me, Greg, or your grandchildren again, this entire subject is officially off the table for discussion. We WILL NOT talk about it. If you refer to it at all around him, you forfeit rights to the kids right there. And the same thing goes for Dad, too."

"We just want to help him, Lisa. He needs to talk to somebody about this."

"He IS talking to somebody about this and has been for a while," Cuddy snapped, then flinched as she realized she'd confirmed everything. Not that she'd really ever had any chance of convincing Susan otherwise. Cuddy came by her stubborn streak honestly.

"But . . ."

"SHUT UP AND LISTEN!" Cuddy shouted. House stirred slightly, still sound asleep but reacting minutely to the sound. She stroked his hair, and he settled back into her touch. "The best way you can help him is to leave the subject alone. He's getting the help he needs, and that help is NOT having family members go into hysterics."

"I wasn't in hysterics," Susan bristled. "I was just concerned about him."

"Mom, imagine your deepest, most embarrassing secret handed out to all your friends and acquaintances without your permission. Would you want them to make a big deal out of it with full drama or just act like nothing had changed?"

"That isn't an embarrassing secret, Lisa; it's a tragedy. Nobody could ever think it was his fault."

Cuddy wished that House could have one glimpse of similar clarity on that subject. "I know," she said softly, fighting back tears suddenly.

Her mother heard. "Lisa? Are _you_ okay?"

She sighed. "Mom, listen to me. Did you never wonder _why_ these papers were mailed to you?" There was stunned silence on the other end. No, Susan hadn't. Her first and only concern had been for House, not questioning how this arrived at her doorstep. "Mom, there is a man trying to bring Greg down over this case. He doesn't have a legal leg to stand on, but he's trying to break him mentally. He's the one who mailed the papers. He is _using _you; he wants you to call and drive Greg nuts being all compassionately pestering about this. You're playing right into his hands."

There was stunned silence on the other end of the phone for a moment, and Susan had steel in her own voice when she finally replied. "Who the hell does he think he is?"

Cuddy grinned in spite of her worry. Her mother on a cause had her determination, or rather, of course, she had her mother's. "I don't know, but he doesn't know who he's crossed here. But he will. I swear, he is going to pay for this."

"If there is anything your father and I can do to help, please let us know." Susan's voice was a study in controlled fury.

Golden opportunity. "I will, Mom, but what you can do right now for Greg is simply to _leave it alone_. Don't look at him differently, talk to him differently, or change anything. Just act like nothing at all has happened. Tell Dad, too. . . oh my God. Did Lyla get a copy?"

"I haven't heard from her. We aren't on the best of terms since her lies about Greg back before the wedding."

"I'll check caller ID on this end, but hopefully Chandler only sent paperwork to you and maybe Greg's mother, not the whole extended relatives. We're close to you guys; we aren't close to her. Don't ask the relatives if they received anything, but if anybody mentions it, tell them to stuff a cork in it and use whatever threats you have to.

"I will," Susan promised. "Is Thanksgiving still on?"

Cuddy sighed, remembering the large Abby presentation party to extended family. "I don't know. I'll ask him. If it is, the first time you pull out the 'poor Greg' card, that's it. I'll kick you out of our lives in front of everybody."

"Don't worry, Lisa. I understand. I'm on your side. Whoever this snake is, he won't make pawns out of us." Cuddy closed her eyes, suddenly glad of the support. Her mother could be annoying at times, but with her dander up, she was also a strong-willed ally, as was her father. This wasn't how she'd meant for this conversation to go, but she felt better. "Lisa?" She opened her eyes again. "Is Greg really getting help?"

"Yes. He's getting better. Or was, until this, but we'll get past it. He is working through things."

"How could any father possibly do that to his child?" Susan's voice was disbelief mixed with fury.

"I don't know. There are some sick people in the world, and this man right now is another one like him."

"I understand now why he didn't want to talk about his father at the wedding rehearsal dinner. I'm sorry. I'll never mention the man again to him, and I'll make sure Robert doesn't, either."

"Thank you. By the way, please don't use the phrase I'm sorry. Tell him you apologize. But not about this or about his father; on that subject, leave it alone."

"Why would saying I'm sorry matter?"

"It brings up bad memories. That's all you need to know."

Susan sighed. "Okay. I'll drop the subject. Give him a hug for me, okay?"

"I will." Cuddy yawned, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"Are you holding up all right, Lisa?"

"As well as I can. We'll get through this."

"If you need anything, just call. Okay?"

"Okay. Good night, Mom."

"Good night, Lisa." Susan hung up.

Cuddy leaned over in the bed, wrapping her arms around her husband. "This is from Mom, Greg," she whispered. "And this," she kissed him, "is from me." He shifted slightly, moving into her, responding to her embrace even when deeply sedated, and she smiled. "We're going to make it, Greg. Okay, one parent down, one to go." She straightened back up and checked caller ID on the cell phone - some missed calls from her mother, none from Lyla, fortunately - then dialed.

Blythe sounded completely distraught. "Lisa? I've been sitting here waiting for Greg to call and chewing my fingernails." House normally called her each Saturday night.

"Blythe, did you get a package in the mail today?"

"Yes. My God, how . . . Greg called me twice yesterday, but he didn't give details. I never told anybody those things, I swear."

Cuddy felt a slow blazing fury start to sear through her body, rising toward her voice. "Yes, you did. You opened the door to this."

"What? Lisa, I swear . . . I've been wracking my brain since this afternoon trying to think, but I NEVER told anybody this. Greg was asking if I talked to that patient's father, but it was just social. I swear!"

"Blythe, that man wasn't actually the patient's father. He was an abuser and a bully, and he was looking for any future usable information on Greg. He played you like a fish on a line. You gave him the name of your psychiatrist, and he had somebody break into his office and copy the notes."

Blythe was stunned into silence. "Oh my God," she said after a full minute. "He seemed . . . I didn't realize."

"Believe me, if I thought you did this deliberately, I would have already kicked you out of the girls' lives. I'm not, because that isn't my decision to make, and you are the only blood family Greg has left, and he _does_ value your relationship, Lord knows why at times. But Blythe, you have _got_ to start developing some discretion. You started this. You need to know that."

Blythe was crying softly now; Cuddy could hear her. "Lisa, I would _never_ intentionally . . ."

"I know. But it still happened."

"Is Greg all right? Can I talk to him?"

"No and no. He's already sound asleep for the night. I'm sure he'll call you at some point."

"I . . . maybe I ought to just go away myself."

"Don't you _dare_ put one more burden on him right now. If you want to run away, you do it after this is all over." Cuddy's voice was absolute iron. "You don't get to duck out on this fight when you contributed to it."

"I'm so sorry, Lisa." The woman was openly sobbing now, and Cuddy felt a reluctant stab of sympathy.

"Go talk to your psychiatrist, Blythe. And while you're there, tell him to upgrade his office security system."

"I never meant . . ."

"Blythe, don't ever get married again, because your judgment in men is nonexistent. There are some sick bastards in the world. You lived with one of them for decades, and you met another a few weeks ago, and you still had no idea."

Blythe didn't say anything for another few minutes. "Is Greg going to be okay?" she asked finally, getting shaky control of her voice.

"We're working through things. Don't try to call us at the moment; the phones are turned off. I'll make sure you stay updated." Blythe was still sniffling softly. "Make an appointment with your psychiatrist, Blythe. Greg will call you pretty soon, I'm sure, and when he does, you be careful with him. No hysterics, no throwing yourself in a volcano. That _will not _help things at the moment. Low key and supportive. He needs us to stay calm for him."

"I'll . . . I'll try." Blythe sniffled again. "I'm so sorry about this, Lisa."

"So am I. I've got to get to bed now. Bye." Cuddy stabbed at end, then at off. She studied her husband for a moment, remembering his words to Jensen about Foreman's lapse regarding Thirteen, that Chandler would have found another source anyway and that Foreman had just made it easier for him. House was probably right, as usual, but damn it, Cuddy refused to totally excuse Blythe's role in this. She switched off the lamp and slid down in the bed, wrapping her arms protectively around her husband. "We're going to get through this," she promised fiercely. "And by the end of everything, Chandler will wish he'd never met us. Good night, Greg."

Sleep came more quickly than she expected, exhaustion claiming her as the curtain finally fell on Saturday.


	28. Chapter 28

Cuddy hadn't set the clock, but she woke up at 5:00, her usual time, feeling definitely better physically. It had been a quiet, routine night, up for the girls twice, nothing else. House had barely moved all night. She looked over quickly at him now, but he was still asleep, his face relaxed, his breathing even. Thank God for drugs, she thought. They did have their appropriate uses at times. He would never make it through the current crisis without getting some rest, and she knew - and he knew himself - that his mind wouldn't allow him rest at the moment, not voluntarily, not for long. Nightmares would be inevitable if allowed a chance. She sighed.

Today, Jensen would be approaching the massive central issue of so many people knowing about his past. She knew how hard that was going to be for House, and the worst thing was that he would _have_ to come to terms with it, not on his own timetable but on that of an external force deliberately trying to use this to break him. There was no way to undo things and go on with the world in ignorance; his privacy had been violently ripped out of his hands. Nothing Jensen could say would change that fact. At least her mother was on her side now, allied against the true enemy. Cuddy felt a twinge of guilt, wondering if she had been too harsh on Blythe last night, but the woman could be truly maddening in her obliviousness at times. Cuddy still didn't see how it had been possible to live through House's childhood and not see what was going on. At least Lyla hopefully hadn't gotten a copy of the papers. She would have called immediately to gloat, all of her disparaging assessments of House confirmed. If Susan hadn't heard from her and she hadn't called Cuddy herself, that was probably sound diagnostic evidence.

Wait a minute. Cuddy switched on the lamp and leaned across House to retrieve his cell phone from the nightstand on his side of the bed. He shifted as she bumped him, then fell back into rest. His mind was slowly start to come back on line, and he was much closer to the surface than he had been earlier. Not just yet, Greg, she thought. Give me a few minutes. She switched on his cell phone and checked the extensive list of missed calls. Several last night from Susan. One from Blythe. None from Lyla. Cuddy saw the long list of missed calls from Friday afternoon and went ahead and deleted those, too; no reason to leave that task to him for later and make him feel guilty for worrying her. Most were from her except for one from Wilson. With the list empty, she turned the cell phone off again, replaced it, and settled back down next to him, leaving him to wake up on his own, gradually surfacing through the fog, but this morning, she was bound and determined that he wasn't going to wake up alone. The girls would be asleep for a little while yet, and yoga could have a day off. She wasn't moving out of this bed.

It took about another 30 minutes, his consciousness slowly surfacing. He shifted, turning his head, and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him more firmly against her. His head moved again, and she saw the heavy eyelids fluttering. He didn't quite succeed in getting them open the first time, falling back into temporary slumber, but a few minutes later, he did. She was the first sight in front of his slightly foggy blue eyes as they opened. "Good morning," she said, leaning in for a kiss, feeling him respond if a bit sluggishly at first.

"Morning," he said as they broke apart a minute later. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well. The girls woke up twice; that was all. What about you?"

"Not much choice," he replied. His eyelids drifted down again, and she smiled.

"Good. You needed it." He gave a half hum that might have been agreement or just acknowledgment, and she simply held him, letting him drift another few minutes.

His eyes clicked back open shortly later, looking a little more focused. "I asked Wilson to come by this afternoon."

"Good. We can slot in talking to Jensen around him. I'm assuming you don't want Wilson there for that."

He shook his head vigorously. "Not in this century. Bad enough to have to talk about it anyway. Wilson doesn't need to be at my sessions."

"I appreciate you letting me sit in yesterday, Greg. That was an eye-opener." She felt his mood plummet, felt his mental withdrawal, and quickly clarified. "Not you, Jensen. You didn't say anything to make me change my feelings. Nothing's going to make me change my feelings." He still looked a bit dubious, and she gave him another kiss to seal the promise. "I mean it. There is nothing I could hear from you or about you that would change things. But Jensen is amazing to watch. He's good."

House nodded. "He is. At least you saw some of what you're paying for the last year and a half."

That _you're paying for_ bothered her, and it reminded her of his reference to _your window_ yesterday afternoon. "Greg, I have already seen plenty of evidence of what _we_ are paying for. That's a joint checking account; there is nothing about it that is _yours_ or _mine_." He looked away. "Just like this is our house. Why did you say you broke my window yesterday?"

"I did."

"It's your window just as much. It's _our_ window, in every way. Your name is on the deed along with mine at this point. In fact, my name has changed to add yours on all the paperwork; I'm Lisa Cuddy-House, and even if people usually just use the first part because they're used to it, I'm proud of that name, and I like seeing the full version on the bills and checks and even on my office door." He was still looking away. "Greg, talk to me. What are you thinking?"

He sighed. "You were here first."

"So?" The unspoken second half of his statement suddenly connected. "And I'll be here after? Is _that_ what you're thinking?"

"I . . ." He trailed off, hearing the rising annoyance in her tone.

"You are not a temporary house guest, Greg. You're my _husband_. I'm not going to get tired of you eventually and move on." He still wasn't looking at her, and she reached out to physically pull his face around, meeting his eyes. "This is _our_ house. This is _our_ life. You are not inconveniencing me by being in it, and I plan to have you around as long as we're both alive, not one minute less. And I hope that is a _long_ time."

His eyes were hopeful but still not quite convinced, and she mentally throttled John House again. How could somebody systematically destroy the self-esteem of a child like that? "Greg, I mean it. Forever. I meant every word I said at our wedding." She leaned in for another kiss, but that time, as he gradually started to respond more and press his body into hers, his leg yelped, and she felt him flinch sharply and heard the hiss of his quickly drawn breath. She immediately let go and slid out of bed, going around to pull the covers down, although she did wait a second for his nod of permission.

The bruising probably looked at its worst today, the second day after the injury. The leg had two widening purple marks across the scar and was swollen around them. It hurt just to look at it. She checked the distal pulses again, reassuring herself.

"What about Foreman?" House asked, watching her.

"I ought to fire him."

"He can't get another job. He's tried that once," he reminded her.

"Even so . . . Jensen thinks he needs therapy. Jensen didn't want him as a patient himself, though."

House grinned with real humor behind it. "Jensen as usual is right. On both counts. I'm glad to know he draws the line on who he'll see somewhere."

"He _likes_ seeing you, Greg. He's not scraping the bottom of the patient barrel sticking with you; he just thought that he's enough wrapped up in our circle already. I'll talk to Foreman, maybe make therapy part of his continued employment. There does have to be some official response to what he did."

"He was drunk."

She felt annoyance again, both at his self-devaluation as well as at Foreman. "That isn't what you really mean. You don't think it matters as much because he attacked _you_. Attacking me, for instance, would be far worse." She saw the fire flare up in his eyes at the thought. "See? Greg, you are worth defending. Besides, Foreman went for your leg. That is _not_ just being drunk; that's serious and directed anger. With him feeling like that, even if it's a dodge for his own role like Jensen said, I don't think he'd be able to continue working effectively with you and just pretend this didn't happen, even if he wants to. Not without getting some help."

House considered, then nodded. "Probably would affect patient care. You're right; he's got a lot of anger, always has, and he tries to pretend otherwise. Smooth, polished, controlled front with a current churning underneath. Thirteen will make it all worse."

"I'll talk to him. I'm sure he's at his limit for the moment planning the funeral and just dealing with her death, though. I'll give it a few days. He wouldn't be coming back to work right off anyway. I ought to check on the rest of the team, too, and others who worked around her or knew her. Maybe a grief counselor available to hospital staff in general would be a good idea."

House looked analytical. "Kutner will probably miss her but rebound and go on okay. He's like one of those blow-up punching bags; he'd roll with things and come back up fine at the end. He's already been through his parents; if he survived that and is still as obnoxiously cheerful as he turned out, he'll be okay with this eventually. Taub, now, I can see repressing all feelings, denying that he was close to her, diving into work, and then breaking down in a corner somewhere. A private corner. Then never mentioning it again."

Cuddy nodded. His analysis, as usual, was spot on. "What about you, Greg?" she asked gently. He seemed to want to talk about Thirteen's death and its effects at the moment, and even if that was a shying away from the main topic scheduled today as long as possible, she was encouraged that he was talking about something that mattered and not just retreating into silence. He seemed to be feeling better than he had last night after getting some sleep.

He looked away again. "Not much I can do about it."

"This isn't a question of doing; it's a question of feeling. Don't be afraid to let yourself feel. That's part of grief. Do you want to go to the funeral?"

He tightened up so suddenly that his leg nearly went into a spasm over it, and Cuddy massaged it gently. "I apologize. You don't have to think through everything now. Just don't put off letting yourself feel, okay? It's all right to feel. It's all right to grieve. That's normal; that's how you get through it."

"I don't want to go to the funeral," he said softly.

"Okay, you don't have to. It might help, though." He shook his head vigorously. "I know your father's funeral was an awful experience for you, and I apologize again for that. I never should have forced you to go. But think of others you've been to. Didn't they make any difference, help start the healing at all? They can remind people of the good times as well as starting closure."

"To think of others, you have to have others to think of," he snapped.

She released his leg, staring at him, absolutely horrified. "Are you saying you've _never_ been to a funeral in your life except your father's?" He looked down. "Not in childhood? No relatives? _Nobody?_"

"Dad didn't . . . I found out about Oma's death months later. Not that there were many others who died, but most of the time, that's how it came up. So-and-so died, usually announced at the table with just the two of us long after the fact. No funeral, no anything. Just clean your plate and move on. It wasn't mentioned again."

Cuddy closed her eyes. "Oh, God, Greg . . . not with your mother's family, even?"

"Oma _was_ Mom's family. I think he monitored the mail. We kept moving, remember. We could be hard to track. That was way before cell phones, and international phone service was poor connection and expensive for even that; he discouraged any phone calls to family, and I'm not sure they even had the number all the time. I know Mom always wrote letters to her family and friends, but not calls unless we were stateside. He avoided contact with any relative of his that I knew about, by any method. He said the letter about Oma must have gotten lost, but I always wondered. Important family messages got 'lost' more than once." He shook his head. "That's how I found out people died. I don't know how he told Mom, but he always told me on some night when she was out and we were eating alone. 'By the way, Oma died 6 months ago; pass the rolls.' I couldn't react to it; if I did, that was weakness, and he'd have to . . . Mom and I would talk about them sometimes, but never with him. He didn't like it. I don't know how . . . I _can't _go to a funeral."

Cuddy yielded the field to Jensen; she was in far over her head here. This subject alone was good for several full days of therapy, and there was an even more immediate one in line ahead of it with the exposure. How had he managed to stay sane? "Okay, Greg. I apologize for bringing it up. You don't have to go to her funeral." She kissed him again in apology, pulling him close, wishing she could kiss away the pain. "And I wish I'd known about your father back before that bastard's funeral. I wouldn't have forced you. But even not knowing why, I had no right to do that. It should have been your choice."

"Quit it, Lisa," he stated firmly. "Don't dive into a guilt fest first thing in the morning. At least wait until after breakfast, okay?"

She smiled, relieved a bit at his tone of annoyance, which sounded much more like his usual self than that near monotone recitation of childhood life. "Okay. I'll try to put all guilt off routinely until after breakfast. But you had better start referring to this place as _our_ house. Deal?"

"Deal," he agreed, but his eyes were still thoughtful. Rachel woke up just then, heard through the monitor, and Cuddy gave his leg a final gentle rub.

"I'll get the girls. Meet you in _our_ kitchen in a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay," he replied, and he was gradually, painfully prying himself out of bed as she quickly threw on clothes and then left for the nursery.


	29. Chapter 29

By the time Cuddy got the girls up and dressed and arrived in the kitchen, Jensen was already there starting coffee. She shook her head in admiration. "You do everything, don't you?"

"Trust me, the coffee isn't just intended for you." He left the machine to its encouraging-sounding gurgling and turned to face her. "How are things this morning?"

"Better, I think. Last night was peaceful, at least, and he didn't have to be stubborn for hours first." She put Abby in her high chair, then captured Rachel, who was running laps around the table chasing Belle, and put her in her chair. Rachel immediately banged on the tray.

"Ch'roes."

Cuddy got out the box of Cheerios and poured a little for the girls to munch while breakfast was cooking, but she stopped before delivering the snack. "What's the magic word, Rachel?"

Rachel looked martyred, holding out for a minute, and Abby spoke up from her chair. "Peas."

Jensen chuckled, and Cuddy laughed. Bending over to kiss Abby, she put a few Cheerios on her tray. "That's a new one. I'll have to tell Greg she added another word; that makes five. She's a little bit behind on some of the physical developmental markers, but she's gaining all the time."

"She'll catch up," Jensen predicted. "Nobody could look at those eyes and think that mind isn't spinning along perfectly well in there."

"Ch'roes!" Rachel insisted.

"Say the magic word," Cuddy repeated.

"Please." Rachel gave in, and Cuddy gave her the cereal, then started to rummage in the refrigerator, extracting baby food.

"I'll start breakfast for us if you like while you deal with the girls," Jensen offered.

"Thank you. I need five hands in the mornings, I think."

"Dada?" Rachel asked with her mouth full.

"He'll be here in a few minutes. He was getting up." Cuddy flinched, remembering looking at that leg. "I think he did strain his leg some yesterday afternoon falling, besides what Foreman already did."

"I was afraid of that," Jensen agreed. "It could have been worse, though."

Worse. Cuddy sighed. "At some point, when the more immediate fires are put out, you need to talk to him about funerals."

Jensen nodded. "I will. Just from what I already knew, his father twisted the whole grief process about as much as he warped the idea of family."

Cuddy's eyes glittered. "If John House weren't dead, I'd kill him. I was trying to talk to Greg about Dr. Hadley - he actually _was_ talking about it some - but I can't make him go to a funeral, not after what I did with his father's."

Jensen shook his head. "Trying to force him won't work. I doubt he could go to this one; he's not ready, and this is all too much right now, especially with it not being an expected, natural death. But remember, he will get past this crisis."

Cuddy smiled sadly. "Thanks. But as far as I'm concerned, Chandler can join the execution line right along with John."

"I agree," Jensen said, and the edge in his tone made her look up, surprised. The psychiatrist's own eyes were blazing.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you get mad before."

"Oh, I've got a temper. I had to work extremely hard when I was younger to learn to control it. I was the more hot-headed one; Mark was always steadier. But yes, this kind of cold-blooded attack on somebody is unforgivable. I'd enjoy seeing him go down for this myself." Jensen paused a moment, then continued. "And Dr. House is far more than just a patient to me by this point, and not just because of what he did for Cathy."

Cuddy nodded. "He's so special. I just wish he realized that."

"Hopefully someday he will." Jensen's head turned toward the door, and a second later, Cuddy heard the slow, ponderous limp in the hall herself. House came into the kitchen and dropped into a chair with a slight involuntary grunt.

"Dada!" Rachel greeted him. "Morning!" Abby in her chair was smiling.

"Good morning, Rachel. Morning, Abby. Morning, Belle," he added as the cat jumped up onto his lap, landing carefully on his good leg. "How are my girls this morning?"

"Hungry," Cuddy replied, warming baby food. "Abby picked up a new word, Greg. She said please. She even beat Rachel to it."

He smiled. Jensen poured three cups of coffee from the finished pot and put Cuddy's on the counter beside her before coming across to the table with House's. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Okay," House replied. He extracted an entire handful of pills from his pocket and gulped them down in one mouthful with a swallow of coffee. Cuddy flinched. "What? I even took them with something to drink."

"One of these days, you're going to choke yourself." She studied his face, assessing the tension, physical and otherwise, etched into it. "By tonight maybe you can take a long, hot soak and try to work the kinks out of your leg."

He stretched it out more with a slight wince and nodded. "That should be long enough. If it's not, too bad. Wilson's coming by this afternoon, so we're going to have to shrink me sometime this morning." Besides, he didn't want to put it off anyway. He didn't want to talk through things at all, but having acknowledged the necessity, he wanted to get this whole process over with as fast as possible.

"We can talk this morning," Jensen replied. "James coming by later will be a nice break from things; you'll probably be ready for one by then."

Cuddy pulled a chair over next to the two high chairs and started spooning out baby food. "I can run interference with the girls and leave you two to it."

House hesitated. He didn't really want to talk about abuse in front of his daughters, even though they were too young to understand, but he didn't want to kick Cuddy out, either. It was her house, after all. Well, their house, as she said, but still . . . "Maybe they could just have a movie or something and we could be quiet."

Cuddy was watching his expression. "Greg, why did you let me sit in yesterday?"

He sighed. "I knew you weren't about to wash your hands of me and leave."

"Neither was Jensen."

"I didn't know that. Hell, I _still_ don't understand it."

"Stop trying to understand it and just accept it," Jensen advised. "Friday night, the part between us, that is, is over. Remember?" House nodded, still looking mystified by this attitude. "But if I might point out, that was your motive the first time. Why did you let Dr. Cuddy stay the second time she asked you?" He thought House, while still genuinely confused about Jensen's attitude, was also taking advantage of that as a dodge from stating his reasons for letting her stay the second time.

House confirmed that thought to both of them by looking away. "Greg," Cuddy insisted, "why did you let me stay?"

"You'd . . . already seen the worst," he stated slowly. "If you hadn't hit the limit yet . . . you probably wouldn't."

She studied him, trying to analyze his expression. "I told you, I'm not going to hit the limit. But that's not all, is it?"

He shook his head. "You'll get mad."

"I'm already mad - at Chandler, like I should be. What was your other reason?" He hesitated, and she set down the baby food jar and glared at him. "Greg."

"I . . . didn't want to kick you out of . . . _our_ . . . living room," he said, phrasing it carefully.

Jensen, working on cooking breakfast, fought back a sigh, but he left the field to Cuddy on this one. He had thought House's motivations on that yesterday weren't straight, although he had had several things ahead of it on the list to dig into. This was really Cuddy's topic, though; House needed to hear it from her. Actually, from House's statement that she would get mad, as well as the pointed possessive pronoun, Jensen thought they must have already had at least some discussion this morning on "your window."

Cuddy glared at her husband, fighting back exasperation. "See?" he said. "You're mad. I was trying to save you that, but you just wouldn't listen."

"I am NOT mad," she insisted.

"Shhhh," Rachel advised.

House and Cuddy both grinned, the tension easing a little. "I'll distract the girls this morning," Cuddy repeated, her tone more calm but with steely determination. "You and Jensen can have _our_ living room."

"I didn't . . .mind," he added hurriedly. "Really."

"The girls have to be taken care of anyway. But if it makes you feel better, I promise to do my utmost to eavesdrop. Okay?"

House laughed there, the tension easing. "We'll try to be loud enough - for part of it. So you'll be sure to catch about every fourth word."

"Smart alec," she retorted. She picked up the baby food jar again, turning back to her motherly duties.

Jensen fought back a private smile as he opened the cabinet to get out plates. He still wondered how it had been possible for these two to know each other so many years and take so long to finally get together. "Breakfast is ready," he stated.

All serious conversation was banished for the meal, and they spent the time in social chit-chat mainly about the girls. The whole time, though, House was aware of the space behind him of the - of _their _living room and the silent presence of the waiting whiteboard.


	30. Chapter 30

Thanks for the reviews. I hadn't planned to split this session, but it's getting long, and I'm out of writing time, so it was either give you half a session today or nothing. This story hits another hill and accelerates again next chapter, so keep those seat belts on. We aren't near done yet.

(H/C)

House pushed back from the kitchen table and stood up. Rachel immediately pounded on the high chair tray. "Up, Dada! Up!"

House hesitated, weighing his daughter's request against the fact that he was having difficulty just lugging himself around at the moment, and Cuddy stepped in. "Not right now, Rachel."

"No!" Rachel protested.

House turned away and wandered toward the living room, suddenly acutely conscious of his leg. The damage from Foreman and his fall would wear off in a few days, but the leg itself would always be there. He wondered how long he would be able to pick up his daughters, even when he was at baseline. They would continue to get stronger. He would not. He sat down on the piano bench, not playing, just studying the keys. Black and white. No questions, no debate, no changing status. He wasn't sure if he was comforted by the instrument or envious of it.

Rachel was still protesting his departure from the kitchen, and Cuddy finally lifted her out of the high chair, picked up Abby, and headed into the living room. She had seen the droop of House's shoulders as he had turned. Rachel galloped up to the piano bench and tried to scramble up onto it, and House looked down with a somewhat-bittersweet smile and lifted her up. "Greg," Cuddy said, trying to distract him. Even thoughts of the present were better than thoughts of an imagined bleakly disabled future.

"What?" He looked up. Rachel climbed onto his lap, and he flinched, enough that the child stopped in her pursuit to reach the keys and looked back at him instead. He carefully adjusted her position.

"I need to tell you, I called our mothers last night."

His thoughts returned from the imagined bleak future into the present, landing with a thud. "Mothers? Plural?"

"Yes. I . . . might have been too hard on yours."

"She didn't realize what she was doing, Lisa."

"She should have," Cuddy insisted. "At least had an uneasy feeling. _Something_."

"How did she take it?" he asked. He reached around Rachel, who was hammering the keys, and started playing, an easy, gentle tune, just pacifying his daughter, nothing with heart or soul in it. Rachel settled back, content to listen.

"She was upset, of course. I told her to make an appointment with her psychiatrist and talk through things with him. Also told her the phones are off at the moment but that we would keep her updated."

House nodded. "I'll call her myself sometime when I get a chance." When he felt like it. Which wasn't now, although he knew he couldn't put off that conversation long.

There were far too many conversations at the moment that refused to be put off and were clamoring for his attention. "What about Susan?" he asked, trying to distract himself.

"We talked, and I gave her a piece of my mind, too. She apologizes for pouncing on you like that; she just wanted you to know she was there."

The music stopped. "She was feeling sorry for me. Probably feeling sorry for you, too, what you got stuck with."

Cuddy sat down on the piano bench, making it a tight fit with all four of them, but she wanted him to feel the contact. "I am _not_ stuck with you. I told you that. There is _nowhere_ I'd rather be than with you. Mom wasn't judging you; she was just concerned. She expressed it badly, but she said if there's anything they can do, let them know."

He stared at his hands. "So she knows. She believed it."

Cuddy sighed. "I started out trying to stay off whether it was true, but I never really had a chance."

He nodded. He knew Susan, part painfully proper mother, part bulldog. "Did Mom get a copy of the papers?"

"Yes." Cuddy leaned into him.

"Anybody else?"

"Not that we know of. My mother at least knows you don't want to talk about it now."

She had definitely succeeded in retrieving his thoughts from the imagined bleak future of disability. He stared at the keys, his face troubled, and when Rachel reached out for the keyboard again, he gently gripped her hands and pulled them away. "No, Rachel. Not right now." He twisted on the bench to set her down, then gave a hiss of pain as his leg protested.

Cuddy stood up with Abby. "I'll get the heating pad. Maybe it will help. You did take the Flexeril, didn't you?"

"Yes," he snapped. She turned away, letting him lurch to his feet unwatched.

"Rachel, in a minute I'll read you a book, okay? Why don't you go pick one out?" Rachel bounded off down the hall, her attention caught, and House sat down sideways on the couch again and stretched his legs out. Cuddy came back, tucking the heating pad around his thigh and turning it on. She leaned over to kiss him.

"I am _not_ stuck with you. Neither are the girls. We wouldn't trade if we could."

He looked away from the reassurance and tried to make a joke out of it. "I don't know; I'm a pretty high-mileage model."

She shook her head. "You're a classic. Very high value." She straightened up. "I'll be back in the nursery, okay? But I'll be around if you need me. Just call."

House nodded and watched her leave. Jensen emerged from the kitchen a few moments later, having waited discreetly until the two of them had finished the personal conversation. House sighed, and Jensen felt a surge of sympathy, carefully hidden. Cuddy was right. House truly had lived in a pinball game, and the last day and a half had been a championship bonus-point round.

The psychiatrist sat down in the armchair and retrieved the whiteboard, which had been leaned up against the base of the chair, turning it back around. He had turned the written face in last night, trying to keep House from still chewing over the problems on it during the movie. Last night, House had been at the limit. Jensen studied him unobtrusively now, gauging, as he picked up the whiteboard. House looked better this morning. Still under too much tension, stretched so tight mentally that he was nearly vibrating like a tuning fork, but definitely better than he had looked last night. Jensen thought they were gaining ground, but this would be a very hard session.

"First," he started, "remember what we're trying to do here. We're looking at your fault in these areas, trying to see where you failed, if you did. We aren't necessarily trying to eliminate the problems themselves."

House nodded. "Nothing we can do about them. Christopher's dead, Thirteen's dead, and everybody . . ." He trailed off.

Jensen wrote Exposure on the board, then drew a short vertical line below it, bisecting the lower section but not completely. "This is a complicated issue for almost 100% of abuse victims. You need to realize that. It is _common_ to feel like it was your fault. Everybody does. Christopher probably did." He saw the brief flare of denial in House's eyes; he could get indignant about others so much more easily than about himself. "However, your father complicated this extremely. Let's divide it up, then, take his specific contribution before the exposure in general." On the left side of the lower half of the board, he wrote Consequences.

House shivered, and he could almost hear John's voice again, the oft-repeated threat. _If you tell anybody, I will kill her, and it will be your fault._

Jensen held steady, but he flinched mentally. He hated doing this to House, all at once like this, and once again, he felt his own anger against Patrick flare up. The man had ripped control of the process of therapy out of Jensen's hands. It shouldn't have been like this. "Your father bought your silence by threatening your mother. We've talked about that before, but let's look at his last statement again. It would be your fault. Was that true?"

House stared at the whiteboard. Consequences. "No," he said finally. "But . . . it was hard to hear it. Over and over. He never . . . never let me forget that."

"What your father did to you in several areas, including this one, amounts to brainwashing, Dr. House. I'm sure you've read cases in medical journals of that process. The victim honestly comes to believe it, but it remains untrue."

"I think he might have really done it," House said softly. He looked away, looking at his hands. He had musician's hands, not like Patrick, not like John. They had dominating hands, punishing hands. "He would brag sometimes about killing people . . . as a Marine. I know he could. I think he might have really . . ." He shivered again, and at that moment, Belle appeared and jumped up onto his legs. With feline warmth radar but with infinite care, she arranged herself stretched out on the heating pad on his thigh. She wasn't a large cat, and her weight wasn't that much when she got settled. The gentle rumbling vibration felt soothing, and her golden eyes studied him almost with concern. In spite of the memories, he reached out to scratch her ears.

"You've said that's why you continued to be silent even after you left home," Jensen prompted.

House nodded. "He was still with her. She says he never actually threatened her, but . . . I still think he _could_ have hurt her if he was mad enough."

"So you protected her, even after you were able to fight on your own behalf."

"Yes."

Jensen wrote _You protected her_ on the board. "That was an admirable thing, Dr. House." House looked up, surprised. "Whether the threat would have been carried out or not, you _believed_ that it might, and with some factual evidence to back that up. So you tried to keep your mother safe. That took every bit as much courage as your father's military deeds."

_Just a weakling._

House stiffened up. "You're wrong, damn it."

Jensen smiled at him. "Yes, he is. Actually, I think you showed _more _strength than your father throughout your childhood and beyond, and furthermore, I think he knew that. I think he recognized very early on just how strong of a character you were. I think he _knew_ that you were stronger than he was."

House looked puzzled. "Prove it," he challenged.

"He threatened to kill your mother. He did not threaten to kill you."

House considered that. "He was trying to scare me. He just used a threat he thought would work."

"Did he ever threaten to kill you?" Jensen asked.

A long pause. "No," House replied finally. "He would . . . talk about what he was going to do . . . hurt me . . . torture me. Even stuff he hadn't tried yet. But he never actually threatened to kill me."

"Because he knew even then that the idea of killing you would not defeat you. He knew that your concern for your mother was stronger than your concern for yourself."

House nodded. "I think I might have welcomed it." He abruptly remembered to whom he was talking. "And that was NOT a statement of suicidal ideation."

"I know," Jensen assured him. "That is a perfectly normal reaction to a horrific childhood. Of course you would have welcomed it, because it would have ended it. But many abusers threaten their victims with their own potential death. _If you tell anyone, I'll kill you._ Your father did not. He knew that you were stronger than he was; he never put others above himself. Even if he didn't threaten your mother directly, he stifled her. Your description of home life makes that clear. But he knew that you had the ability to worry about other people, even quite remarkably as a young child at a stage where most are still totally self-absorbed. He knew he had to threaten someone else, not you, for the ultimate threat."

House thought about that for a moment. "He didn't think I was strong. He'd shoot down anything - anything at all - that I did right, all my life."

"Exactly. Methinks he protested too much."

House thoughtfully scratched Belle's ears, then predictably ducked away from the conclusion. Jensen allowed him the momentary dodge, although he knew that unlike a normal session, they needed to get this hammered in near brutally today. "You know, he never talked about killing me, but he did talk about my funeral."

Jensen sat up a little straighter, startled. This was new and probably extremely relevant. "What did he say?"

"He told me that when I died, never said how but just when I died, people there would bring up all the mistakes I'd ever made, all the . . . weaknesses. He said nobody would have a positive thing to say, and when I was there at the funeral, they'd . . ." He trailed off, shivering again, and Belle stretched one paw forward, resting it on his stomach.

Jensen gave him a minute, then tentatively filled in the blank. "Let me guess. He said they would laugh at you?" House nodded. "That's an extension of the same brainwashing. Over and over, he tried to convince you you were weak. The only reason it took so much effort and repetition is that he recognized himself that you are in fact _strong_. As a doctor, if you have an infection that is resistant to antibiotics and takes multiple drugs and a long course to finally get it controlled, it is _not_ because that infection was weak. Quite the opposite." House was silent. "What are you thinking?" Jensen asked. He couldn't quite follow the expression, but he knew it was significant.

"He . . . when I went to his funeral, I was standing up there, and part of me was almost expecting him to get up out of that coffin and criticize what I was saying. Like he'd always said would happen, even if it wasn't my funeral."

"And then you went closer to the coffin and clipped his earlobe off," Jensen reminded him.

"Point is, the bastard was dead, and I was _still_ afraid of him."

"No, the point is, you faced him down, even dead. Like you eventually resisted him in your teens when you were large enough. You did not just turn tail and run, because you are stronger than he was. You protected your mother by silence against a potentially legitimate threat, but for your part, you did resist him."

House looked down. "I was still afraid of him, though."

"Have you ever watched the Wizard of Oz with the girls?" House gave him a _how on earth is that relevant _sardonic glare which looked more like himself than anything Jensen had seen yet in this session, and the psychiatrist couldn't help smiling. "Remember the cowardly lion?"

"Right. Courage isn't lack of fear; it's being afraid and doing it anyway."

"Correct. To modify slightly, _strength_ isn't lack of fear. Total lack of fear is stupidity, not strength. There is an excellent reason why you don't jump into lions' enclosures at the zoo, for instance, and to do so wouldn't be brave; it would be lunacy. Your father frightened you, absolutely understandably. He would have frightened _anybody_ with such a systematic campaign. He would have utterly _crushed_ the vast majority of people. But he did not, because you are _strong._ Were strong then, still are now. Fear is _not_ a sign of weakness." Jensen wrote it down on the whiteboard in firm blue. _You are strong._ "I want to change what I told you a few weeks ago. When your father's memory accuses you of being a weakling, instead of just saying he was wrong, I want you to flat-out contradict him and say you are strong. A positive statement carries more weight than simply a negative one." House tilted his head, looking dubious. "Say it," Jensen prodded.

"I am strong," House recited.

"Say it like you know the definition of the word."

"I am strong." Firmer that time, though not unshakable, but Jensen accepted it for the moment. Hopefully it would get stronger with repetition.

"So, looking at the issue of your father's threat if people found out, the actual threat is void now, since your father cannot from the grave harm your mother, but the fact that you kept that silence against that threat for all those years, for _her_ sake, even after you had resisted him and left for _your _sake, was protecting her. Which you did. She is still here, and she is safe. So where have you failed regarding your father's threat against your mother?"

House studied the whiteboard. "I .. . didn't."

"Right." Jensen wrote NOWHERE across that field, paralleling the NOWHERE in Christopher's column above it. He studied House, then set the board aside and stood up. "I'm going to get another cup of coffee. Would you like one?"

House nodded. He was definitely feeling shaky now. He studied Belle's golden eyes, looking back into his. "Did Lisa send you in here?" he asked her softly. The cat blinked, looking like a miniature sphinx on his leg, full of feline secrets.

Jensen returned from the kitchen with a cup in each hand and offered House one, and House sipped it gratefully, feeling the warmth expand through him. Jensen sat back down. "This isn't how I would have liked to do this," the psychiatrist stated.

"Oh, really?" House retorted, irony dripping off his tone.

Jensen smiled at him. "I was about to say, but I think we would have been approaching this specific issue soon in your sessions anyway."

"Even without Patrick's contribution, you mean?"

"Yes." Jensen took a swallow of his own coffee. "There comes a point in therapy when you have made substantial progress and must finally get down to the really hard issues at the center. You were approaching that point anyway. Patrick is forcing our hand, but you are _not_ as totally unprepared for this as he thinks, and that is a weapon we have. You _are_ getting better, Dr. House." House was silent, considering that, and Jensen relaxed off the point a bit, giving him a microbreak before the next hard section. "Of course, I had _thought_ we'd be getting down to this in our normal, weekly sessions at Middletown."

House abruptly came to attention, nearly spilling his coffee. "Oh, crap."

"What's wrong?"

"I hadn't even realized . . . you just walked out of your office with me on Friday night, and you've been with me since, pretty much. What about your family?"

"I've talked to them several times. It's okay."

House shook his head, busy tying himself up into another failure knot. "This is what cost you your first marriage, you said."

"NO." Jensen's voice was firm enough to jolt House out of his scenarios. "_This_ is a legitimate crisis. Any doctor runs into those. You stayed up all night on Christopher's case, and Dr. Cuddy didn't object. Any spouse of a doctor has to accept the possibility of a case interfering at times with schedule. My mistake the first time was in failing to limit that to true crises. I tried to do too much for my patients, always took work home. _Always_. Not just when needed. It wasn't that I didn't love Cathy and Melissa; I was just still under the delusion that if I worked a little harder, I could fix everything for everybody. I was wrong. I failed to prioritize correctly; I tried to do it all instead. I got too close to every single patient and gave them all 250% and thought I could still manage adequate time and attention for my family, too. That isn't what I'm doing here."

"But does Melissa understand that difference?" House asked.

"Yes, although she took plenty of proof from me once we were dating again that I'd changed. Actually, it was one of those patients I mentioned who committed suicide who made me see the error of my thinking. After my divorce, I worked even harder at the practice, trying to distract myself from the fact that I would get home to an empty house. When that man killed himself, I sat there going over his file trying to think of _anything_ I could have done to make a difference. I couldn't think of it. Not one thing I hadn't tried. But I hadn't realized until I sat there working it out on that patient, hunting down where I dropped the ball, just how many hours a week I had been working. Not only in crisis situations, because he wasn't in one earlier and gave very few lead-up indications to his suicide, but in general. I was working an unbelievable amount of hours, an _unhealthy_ amount of hours, for everybody, because I was trying to be everything and fix it all. That night was the first night in over a year that I simply shut the files and went home empty handed."

House shook his head. "Maybe you _do_ need a psychiatrist yourself."

"What makes you think I've never had one?" Jensen replied smoothly.

House blinked. "I just . . . you seem to have it all together."

"_Nobody_ has it all together, Dr. House. Nobody can, not every last little piece. The people who finally admit that are healthier than the ones still trying."

House shook his head and dove back to a more pertinent point. "Are you sure Melissa doesn't mind you running off with me?"

"Trust me, she's okay with it. Now if it happened on a weekly basis, it would wear out fast, but she understands this is a crisis. Furthermore, she likes you. You not only saved Cathy; you helped show her that I was changing."

"She understands this is a crisis," House repeated. "What did you tell her?" House couldn't object to _some_ information being passed along; Jensen had to explain his disappearance, after all. Still, part of House worried.

"She knows that I'm in Princeton with you. She knows that someone is engaging in psychological warfare against you under the guise of a lawsuit, and she knows that a fellow of yours, codefendent in that lawsuit, committed suicide."

House thought through that. "She doesn't know about the abuse?"

"No. No details on what the case is based on, just that it exists." House relaxed. "It's okay, Dr. House. You aren't hastening my second divorce. Actually, there are only four times in roughly the last year that something came up that I called a crisis and which significantly disrupted family plans. Not an extreme average for a medical professional. I'm doing better with my own issues - and enjoying my family much more this time around than I let myself earlier now that I'm not trying to be a psychiatric superhero and save the world."

"Four times. Including this one?"

"Yes."

"Two for me. The accident and now this." Jensen nodded. "You mean somebody else's life is actually this screwed up, too?"

"Believe it or not, you aren't the most 'screwed-up' patient I've ever seen. You are making progress. Some patients are an exercise in beating my head against a wall, which is when I get tempted to revert to old habits, and I have to firmly make myself leave those files in the office and go on home without them."

House considered this. The idea that others could be more screwed up and handling it worse than he was was an eye-opener. "You've got to get back to this other monumental screwed-upness at some point, though."

"I will; I'm not planning to be a permanent house guest here. But this weekend with you was absolutely needed. Nobody on the schedule for tomorrow is urgent; all routine appointments. I can reschedule those. There's one Tuesday I'll need to do, but there's also something else important Tuesday night that I don't want to miss." House arched an eyebrow, silently inquiring. "Cathy has a piano recital. I need to be there for her for that. Not only do I want to hear her, but she's very conflicted about the piano lessons right now. She really wants to play but is frustrated with the learning process. I need to encourage and support her on that."

House nodded. "This won't be over, but you don't have to stay."

"I'm afraid this crisis is going to take several weeks," Jensen confirmed. "But I think I could probably leave tomorrow. Provided that you keep in touch with me, of course, and a lot more often than once a week, but things are better than they were Friday." He was still convinced that House would have wound up getting killed without intervention on Friday night.

House looked down, his eyes drawn again to Belle's golden ones. "I . . . thanks for this."

"You're welcome." Jensen finished his coffee. "Do you feel like going on?"

"Not really, but have I got a choice?"

Jensen felt another stab of sympathy. He picked up the marker again. "Okay, what do you call it?"

"What do I call it?"

"On this point, your mind repeats something to you, over and over. I'm sure you were hearing something besides your father's accusations on the drive back Friday night, for one, and I doubt it stopped after that. This is the largest obstacle here, I think, and you know it. What have you titled it yourself? Don't leave it shut up in your thoughts, Dr. House; words on the board are easier to reduce to size than words in your mind."

House stared at him for a moment, then looked back down at the cat. "Everybody knows," he replied softly after a few seconds.

Jensen wrote it down as the heading of the right portion of the lower half of the board, and House shivered and gulped down the rest of his coffee. Belle stretched her other front paw out, resting it comfortingly on his stomach, and purred.


	31. Chapter 31

Jensen felt another stab of sympathy toward House and anger toward Patrick. He forced it back enough to keep his tone level. House was already getting closer to the edge just thinking about this topic; Jensen had to be steady for him. The psychiatrist was also starting to consider the possible therapeutic value of an office cat. Belle was definitely helping him out here. "First off," he started, "while I see where you are coming from, your title puts the emphasis in the wrong place."

That got House's attention. "Going to debate the definition of everybody?" he said. "Okay, probably there's a tribe in the Amazon somewhere who hasn't heard yet, but that's not a lot of comfort at the moment."

"That wasn't what I meant." Jensen circled the words Patrick and manipulation under Christopher's column and drew an arrow down to export those to the everybody knows heading. "You said yesterday that Dr. Wilson could probably read the legal papers in the New York Times. I really doubt he could, because actually, Patrick does not care how many people know."

House stared at him, then shook his head. "That's the whole point," he protested. "It HAS to be. Tell as many people in the meantime, then bring it all out again in court."

"That isn't his motive," Jensen repeated. House wasn't buying it, looking at Jensen, not the board, his eyes skeptical and terrified simultaneously. "Remember the bigamist a few weeks ago?" Jensen asked. "I don't know his name, of course, but your first case after Christopher. We've already mentioned him once."

"What does he have to do with Patrick telling the world about my past?"

"You revealed his secret, his double life. Tell me, why didn't you send a press release to the New York Times?"

"Ever hear of confidentiality? That violates HIPAA. I'd be facing another lawsuit along with this one."

"Assume for a moment HIPAA doesn't exist."

House shrugged. "Well, if it works for Foreman," he agreed. He was willing to chase a rabbit for the moment if Jensen wanted to, just to put off the terrifying central issue a little longer.

"If you _could _have sent out a general press release on that, revealing that man's double life, with no legal consequences to you, would you have done so?"

House shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't relevant. I was trying to solve the case. His marriage score actually applied to the medical issues."

"Precisely. Your motive was not primarily to expose him. It made no difference to you whether complete strangers knew. Your motive was to treat him medically. I know part of you enjoyed watching him squirm in front of both wives -" House grinned in confirmation - "but you were really dealing with him, not the world. Telling the Times would have added nothing to the effort to diagnose and treat him. Fair enough?"

House saw the mileage signs on the highway to their destination suddenly. "You're saying that Patrick cares about the effect on me, not about telling people."

"Yes." Jensen rewrote it at the end of the arrow from Christopher's column, in red and capitalized. MANIPULATION. "He hasn't told the world, and I don't think he will, because your own well-known reputation is one of not caring much about the general world's opinion. He has very specifically targeted people he thinks you _would_ mind knowing. Your coworkers, your team, Dr. Cuddy's parents. The readership of the Times doesn't matter to you; Patrick won't waste time there."

House shook his head. "I . . . can't just make it not matter. I don't know _how_ I'm going to go back to work."

"And _that_ is what Patrick was after. Not telling the world, but tying you up in mental knots." Jensen drew a line through _everybody knows_ and replaced it with _trying to break you mentally_.

House studied the whiteboard. "That's supposed to be an improvement?" he asked. He was shivering more now, and Belle crawled up off the heating pad and lay on his stomach, purring. He absentmindedly scratched her ears, but the action steadied him a little bit.

"Actually, it is," Jensen replied. "This one we can do something about. A heading of everybody knows we can't do anything about. There is no way to shove this all back under a rock, in spite of Dr. Cuddy's efforts Friday night. You can never untell the people who got that paperwork, and word will spread, especially around the hospital. BUT Patrick does not have to succeed. Notice the word _trying_. He is _trying_ to break you. He has not succeeded, and he doesn't have to. THIS is something we can fight, unlike the concept of expanded knowledge in general, which is beyond all help at this point."

House looked at the psychiatrist with an absolutely helpless expression that was totally unlike him. "How?" he asked.

"Think of this almost like mental rape. Patrick took something from you, something very private, took it violently and by force. I have no doubt you've met several people affected by rape." House nodded, suddenly remembering Eve. "In fact, that number is probably much higher than you think, because there are plenty of people who have _successfully_ dealt with rape. It's not like they wear a T-shirt telling everybody 'I was raped.' Most people wouldn't know on looking at them."

"So we just say it didn't matter?" House sounded annoyed suddenly.

"No. It definitely mattered. It was a violation, and he deserves consequences for that." The anger in Jensen's voice suddenly surprised House out of his own irritation. "Patrick will have his day in court. I want to have a strategy discussion with you and Dr. Cuddy both later, and we'll talk about that, but there are some things you can do here, gathering evidence, if you will. I'm sure there are security cameras in the doctor's lounge. You can find who put those in the mail slots and posted that on the board, and hopefully his identity will give you a witness, a surprise witness in court, whom I would subpoena as late as possible to avoid Patrick finding out your intentions ahead of time. This whole mass sending of the legal paperwork, while technically not illegal as court documents are public record, is certainly prejudicial to their case, and you telling the judge, calmly and matter of factly, about that, with evidence, is going to be devastating to their chances. Patrick will most likely get contempt charges, possibly more, and he will be publicly exposed in front of the boy's mother and the press, because that also will be open court. Use that against him. You can face Patrick in court, as a rape victim can face her attacker, and know that your testimony is helping justice be done. Don't ever say what he did to you just doesn't matter."

House considered this for a moment, then nodded. He hadn't actually gotten beyond the frozen shock of initial reaction to consider future strategy, but Jensen had a point. No judge was going to like this. With the medical case disproven, which it could be easily, and the evidence of the _sub rosa_ actions, there might well be further charges. Judges don't take well to being used only for psychological revenge instead of for legitimate legal conflicts.

"Okay," Jensen said. "In the meantime, you _can_ deal with this. Like a rape victim. I've had some rape victims as patients; do you know that they are also often on edge about going back to work, back to the store, back to life? Especially in front of family or coworkers who know. That is common. They feel lessened by their experience, just as abuse victims do, and a large part of that is that at the center, they think it's their fault. They should have done something different, they could have prevented this, could have acted differently. They feel that they failed, and they think everyone else is looking at them and seeing that alleged failure."

House turned away, his eyes tracking to anywhere else in the room. The shivering was picking up again.

"I apologize for having to hit this all at once, Dr. House. This isn't how it should have gone. But tell me, whomever you specifically were thinking of a minute ago when I mentioned rape, was it her fault she was assaulted?"

"No," House said softly.

"But part of her probably blamed herself. Correct?" House nodded. "Did you blame her?"

"No."

"What about the nurse who treated her? The other hospital staff? The psychiatrist - I certainly hope they referred her to one? The other medical professionals? Did they all blame her?"

"No."

"Were they talking about her in the corners and laughing at her behind her back?"

"No."

"What about Christopher? When you called CPS, did the agent judge Christopher for being a victim and immediately start listing off how he failed?" House shook his head. "Dr. House, you are going to have to get this point hammered in. THIS is the key to defeating Patrick. Win the battle in your mind, and victory with the rest of it is assured. THIS WAS NOT YOUR FAULT." Jensen wrote it down in heavy black capitals on the board. "You have nothing - absolutely _nothing _- that you did wrong to deserve your father's abuse. You have nothing to be ashamed of. And 98% of people who find out will arrive at that conclusion immediately on their own. They won't think less of you for it. They won't be laughing."

House looked back up at him, catching the figure. "That still leaves 2%," he challenged.

"There are some people who are petty enough and insecure enough that they will try to exploit weaknesses, because that is how they attempt to make themselves feel better. But that is only 2%. Is a doctor with a 98% solve rate on cases unsuccessful?"

House shook his head. "That's excellent."

"Then why should such a doctor fixate on the 2% that he couldn't change and ignore the 98% that most of the world sees?" House sighed. "There will also be people who don't know _how_ to approach this. Dr. Cuddy's mother falls into that category. They will be awkward simply because they aren't sure how to deal with things. If you try to keep business as usual, they will settle down, and things will go on like before. I have no doubt that in a very short time, much shorter than you fear, your relationship with the hospital staff, including those who know, will be the same as it's always been. Those who respected you won't respect you less. Those who liked you - and I'm sure you underestimate that percentage - won't like you less. Those who thought you were an arrogant ass will still be secure in that opinion. The person most affected here is YOU, but that also gives you back some of the control Patrick is trying to take. Your best way of beating him is to reload his gun with blanks. _You_ are in control here of how much this affects your life."

House shuddered. "You're saying I should just walk back into that hospital in front of them like nothing happened?"

"Yes."

"They'll all be pitying me." House abruptly pushed the heating pad back and sat up, dislodging the cat. He stiffly pushed himself to his feet, suddenly _needing_ to move.

"That's something your father told you," Jensen challenged. "Your father was wrong in everything related to child raising that I've heard. Why should he be right on that?" House limped over to the front window and stood looking out, past the patch in the corner where he had broken it yesterday. "Compassion is not pity, Dr. House. Friendship is not pity. You are perceiving something that most of the time simply does not exist. Did you pity your patient who was raped?"

House started to shake his head, then came to attention. "Wilson's here," he stated, looking at the driveway. "With food, naturally. Chinese, I think. Lisa!"

Cuddy responded so quickly to his call that she surprised him. She trotted down the hall from the nursery at a good pace, even beating Rachel. "What is it?"

"Wilson and lunch," he stated. He turned back from the window and stared at the whiteboard. "Could you . . ."

Jensen stood up, holding the board. "I'll put it back in your bedroom." Wilson might not need to see this, but House himself could use the reminder in future days.

Cuddy came close to House. "Are you okay?" she asked. He looked anxious, tense, and jumpy.

"I . . . I'm not sure."

She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him into a tight hug with Abby in the middle. Rachel, annoyed at being left out, tugged on his pants leg, and they broke apart as Wilson knocked.

"Morning!" the oncologist said brightly, entering. "Or afternoon, if it is yet." He set down the bags of Chinese on the coffee table, then fished the phone out of his pocket. "Your phone."

"You're earlier than we thought," Cuddy noted as Jensen came back down the hall.

"Is that a problem?" Wilson looked from one to the other of them.

House shook his head; he at least was glad to end that session. "Nope. Just expected you to be busy getting reacquainted with Sandra after being gone a few days." Wilson flinched slightly, and House's radar focused.

Rachel tugged at the oncologist. "Wilson! Up!" He scooped her up with an ease House envied. To distract himself, the diagnostician sat back down on the couch and started to root through the bags.

"I brought lunch," Wilson said unnecessarily.

"Oh, is that what it's called?" House gave a grunt of satisfaction as he found his favorite. He pulled it out, suddenly hungrier than he had been any time since Friday.

"I'll get some drinks," Cuddy stated, and Wilson, still holding Rachel, trailed her helpfully into the kitchen.

Jensen sat down in the armchair again. "Do you mind discussing strategy in front of James?"

House shook his head after a moment. "He's going to be around, too. Besides, he'd just have to try to get it out of me later." He took a bite, handling chopsticks expertly. "Not during lunch, though."

"No. We both need a break." House looked up, surprised. "Believe me, I don't enjoy sessions like that either."

Cuddy and Wilson returned with drinks, Rachel running ahead, and the group settled around the living room, just talking easily about nothing that mattered. House didn't contribute much to the discussion, but he ate more than he had been. Cuddy, studying him unobtrusively, thought he looked a little better, although still under obvious extreme strain. Maybe he would get through this with Jensen's help.

After lunch, they put in Lady and the Tramp for the girls, settling them in the floor in front of the TV, and then they held a quiet conference, House stretched out on the couch, Cuddy with his feet in her lap, Wilson and Jensen in the chairs.

"I was telling Dr. House earlier," Jensen started, "you ought to pull security tape on the doctor's lounge." Cuddy nodded. "If we can identify the messenger and prove that Patrick was behind the distribution, that will look extremely bad in court. You can both win the case and publicly expose him as a manipulative sneak at the trial."

Cuddy sighed. "That's probably more legal than my first strategy of choice."

"Now, Lisa," House said, "you can't kill people. You'd get caught, and I need your help with the girls. Complicates things if you're in prison."

Cuddy considered. "You're right. I would get caught. No, what sounds better is taking out a contract."

House grinned and sat up a little straighter. "Now _there's_ an idea."

"I'd contribute to the fund," Wilson offered. "What's the going rate these days, anyway?"

"What are you looking at me for? How should I know?" House protested. He looked at Jensen suddenly. "Hey, I promised you I wouldn't kill myself. Didn't mention other people."

"That wasn't what I was thinking," Jensen said. "I was tempted to contribute to the fund myself." All of the other three adults in the room stared at him, stunned into silence. "Believe me, I want to see him punished. However, any murder would be traced pretty easily back to you two with this case open, so I think we'd better look at other methods." Jensen was grateful for the not-entirely-joking break in the conversation, though. House needed the release of tension.

House sighed. "Yeah, you're right. They'd know we did it." A blue spark struck from his eyes. "Maybe in a year or so, though . . ."

Jensen gave him the moment, then gently steered the conversation back. "Anyway, I think there are things you can do at the trial. In the meantime, we can drive him crazy."

House straightened up, immediately interested. "How?"

"He's trying to conduct psychological warfare here. We can turn the tables. You know the one thing that infuriates a bully beyond anything else?"

Wilson cast his mind back to school days. "Not getting any attention."

"Right. They thrive on it. Ignoring your enemies - or at least appearing to on the surface, while you gather evidence for the trial later - is a wonderful strategy. It truly drives them nuts."

Cuddy stared at him in disbelief. "You think we should _ignore_ him?"

"On the surface, I think you should treat this exactly like any other legal case. Patrick doesn't want it to be a legal case; court was never his ultimate goal. Take that away from him and be absolutely businesslike, procedural, just another lawsuit that you prepare for legally. Don't let him see that it's affecting you otherwise."

Cuddy considered that, then nodded. "I can see where that would bother him. Okay, I'll have to work at it, but I'll try to be business as usual in all the legal steps."

"One other thing about that. Dr. House, I would very strongly recommend that you leave all contact with the lawyers, all meetings, everything to Dr. Cuddy." Cuddy nodded firmly. "They will _try_ to get you into conferences. You are a busy doctor; use that valid excuse. Don't let them draw you into their game. Because we have to realize, they have inside information on you, and any conference you are in will become a psychological battlefield. They will be _trying _to use words and phrases and triggers to trip you up, and they would love nothing more than to see you break down in a conference."

House shuddered. "I agree. I couldn't take it."

"Acknowledging your limits isn't weakness, Dr. House. Remember. Besides, there is absolutely no reason why you should have to take it. Keep control in your hands; don't hand it back to them."

"How did they know that stuff?" Wilson asked.

House sighed. "Foreman told Patrick about Thirteen, and they broke into my mother's psychiatrist's office to get her notes to find out about me."

"How did they know your mother's psychiatrist?" the oncologist protested.

"Three guesses," Cuddy said, tight-lipped.

Wilson shook his head. "Is _she_ still alive?" he asked.

"I need to call her," House stated, not looking forward to it.

"Actually, you do for another reason," Jensen said. House looked at him. "I think it would be very helpful to get a copy of your mother's treatment notes. We don't know right now how much Patrick knows; we only know the cards he's already played. Knowing what exactly is in those notes will help prepare you for this battle and for court."

House nodded, seeing the point of that. "Mom would have to ask him to fax them."

"If she objects to that, I _will_ kill her," Cuddy vowed. "She doesn't get to have confidentiality in this, not after throwing away yours."

"Lisa, she didn't mean it."

Wilson sighed, feeling his own anger against Blythe, but he also felt that he couldn't judge somebody else for accidentally revealing House's past when he himself had done it intentionally.

"I'll get the notes," House said. "Any other ideas?"

Jensen shook his head. "Not right now. I'm still working on it; this weekend caught me off balance, too. But definitely, at least on the public front, we need to play this like any old legal case. That is exactly what he doesn't want us to do, so we start there and gather evidence on the exposure quietly. Does that make sense?"

Cuddy nodded. "Thank you. I wasn't even down to trying to think through logical next steps yet."

"I think it's nap time for somebody," Wilson stated. Both of the girls, on a blanket and pillow on the floor in front of the TV, were asleep, with Belle joining them.

Cuddy stood. "I'll take them back to the nursery."

"I'll go call Mom," House sighed. He lurched to his feet. "Back in a few minutes."

"How about some chocolate chip ice cream?" Jensen offered. Everybody nodded vigorously, and he started toward the kitchen to dish up bowls during this time out. Wilson helped Cuddy carry the girls, and House limped into the bedroom, shut the door, and then stretched out on the bed with a wince, rubbing his sore leg. He switched on his cell phone and wasted time checking missed calls and messages - none - before finally hitting the number for his mother.

Blythe answered on the first ring. "Gregory?"

"Hi, Mom."

She sounded very tightly controlled herself, like she was trying not to break down. "Greg, I apologize. I had no idea . . ."

"I know, Mom. It's okay. Listen, I haven't got much time right now, but there's something you could do for me that would help."

She immediately brightened up. "What? I'll do anything, of course."

"I need a copy of your psychiatrist's notes. I need to know exactly what's in there; it will help us fight this."

"Of course. I'll get them tomorrow. I made an urgent appointment for tomorrow morning anyway."

"I know it's violating confidentiality, but . . ."

She cut him off. "Greg, if it would help for the whole world to see my secrets, I wouldn't mind. I'm just sor . . . I wish yours hadn't gotten out. I didn't mean that."

"I know. Can you fax those notes? That's faster than mail."

"Of course. Where should I fax them?"

He gave her Cuddy's private fax in her office at the hospital. "What time is your appointment? This fax is in Cuddy's office, not the secretary's, but I'll make sure she's right there to get them off as soon as they come through."

"10:00 tomorrow. I'll get these sent first thing." Blythe sighed. "Greg, are you okay?"

"I'm . . . I'm dealing with things." He ducked away from his feelings. "I've got to go, Mom. I'll keep you posted. Okay?"

"All right, Greg. I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied and hit end. Maybe their relationship was dysfunctional, but it was still one he valued. Throughout his childhood, he had been able once in a while with her to pretend things were normal, and those few moments had been his only oasis in the burning desert of pain. With a sigh, he ran a hand down his leg and stood up.

Cuddy was in the nursery rocking Rachel, who had halfway woken up during transfer. She smiled at him as he passed the doorway, but she didn't say anything, and he didn't either. Rachel's back was to him. If she had realized he was there, the battle for naptime would have immediately gotten harder.

He limped on down the hall. Wilson and Jensen were in the kitchen, and his ears and his attention sharpened up as he turned that direction.

(H/C)

Wilson had gone into the kitchen to help Jensen after delivering Abby to the nursery. "He seems a little better today," he stated.

Jensen nodded. "He's slowly getting a handle on things. You need to let him take the lead, though. He needs your support in this, but let him choose when to talk and when to avoid it. Don't push him on this."

"I won't. What happened with the phone?"

"He threw it through the window. Dr. Cuddy's mother had just called, apparently trying to comfort him on things."

Wilson flinched. "Do you think he can get through this?"

"Yes, but it still shouldn't have happened." Jensen scooped up another ball of ice cream almost viciously. Wilson aligned the bowls on the counter into a geometric design, and they were both silent for a few minutes, both wishing this whole weekend could be discarded for another.

"Have you talked to Sandra yet?" Jensen asked after a while.

Wilson immediately found the kitchen cabinet very interesting. "Um, well, not exactly."

"Or not at all?"

"She was so glad to see me last night. I didn't want to see the bubble burst. Maybe . . . maybe she won't find out."

"You're making a mistake," Jensen insisted.

"I CAN'T tell her," Wilson protested.

"Can't tell her what?" House asked from the door. Wilson jumped and turned around.

"How long have you been there eavesdropping?"

"It's _my _house, mine and Lisa's. Can't eavesdrop on others when they're the ones on your turf. I heard everything since Jensen asked if you talked to Sandra. What can't you tell her? Is this your crisis from yesterday morning?" Wilson sighed, and House shook his head. "Don't tell me; let me guess. Your wandering anatomy went wandering again."

"I sort of found myself in the wrong bed yesterday morning."

"Just found yourself there?" House asked. "Gee, how on earth could that have happened? Alien abduction, and they got the return address wrong?"

"I was _drunk_, okay?" Wilson snapped.

"Then tell her that, if that excuses everything."

"I can't tell her!" the oncologist repeated.

"Then obviously you _don't_ think being drunk excuses everything. Or you don't think she will."

Wilson looked over at Jensen pleadingly. "A little help here?" he asked.

"No, he seems to be doing just fine on his own," Jensen replied. He returned the ice cream to the freezer.

"I meant helping _me_." Wilson turned back to House, exasperated.

"You need to tell her," House stated.

"House, if I tell her, she'll get mad, and then she'll plot out things, like supergluing my penis to me while I'm sleeping, or withholding sex forever, or just walking out in a rage."

"And of course, if you hide it, she won't be mad about that when she finds out at all."

"But she doesn't _have_ to find out," Wilson protested.

"I doubt she'll go for the superglue immediately," House stated. "Withholding sex, yeah, probably insist on counseling, sentence you to probation and community service. But give her a chance to give you one."

Wilson shook his head. "House, she's a _woman_. They specialize in underhanded payback. They are the sex in mind when somebody coined the phrase, 'Don't get mad, get even.'"

House's head snapped up suddenly, the blue lightning striking almost audibly. Jensen and Wilson both felt the heat from it. "House?" Wilson asked. House was staring at the cabinets, his mind already a mile out in front and going at a full gallop. In the next second, he turned and left the kitchen, and by the time Wilson and Jensen made it into the living room after him, he had already picked up the mistreated phone from the coffee table and switched it back on.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: Once again, please remember the time table of the Pranks universe. It broke away from the show about 1/3 of the way through the Greater Good, and events since on the show itself have not happened in my world. This leaves me free to make use of Lucas as he originally was introduced to us in the beginning of Season 5. I actually liked Lucas at first, not with Cuddy, of course, but I kind of liked the character. It took a while for him to degenerate into a sociopathic, criminal, manipulative, cripple-tripping jerk on the show. Anyhow, try to read Lucas with your Season 5 glasses firmly on and ignore Season 6 Lucas events. They never happened. :)

(H/C)

_Monday_

Cuddy gave the girls a final kiss. "Be good for Marina today. Mama loves you." She closed the door behind Marina, who was taking the girls to her place for today, then turned back to face House and Jensen. House was sitting on the couch, not stretched out at ease but sitting there with all the nervous anticipation of a race horse in the starting gate. Jensen was standing over by the piano, on the surface his usual unflappable self. "What time is Lucas going to be here again?"

"9:00, and that's the third time you've asked," House pointed out. "He was on another job yesterday when I called; that was the soonest he could get here."

"And the window repairman will be here at 8:30." House flinched, and Cuddy quickly continued checking off her agenda for the day. "And Wilson. I'm sure Wilson will be early."

"You're performing a valuable function yourself," Jensen said, going unerringly to the heart of her agitation. She hated handing House and the immediate crisis over to others while she went off to the hospital.

"I know," Cuddy sighed. "I'd just rather go with you to New York."

"You have to get that fax, too," House reminded her. "That's one of the biggest assignments for the day. Don't let anybody else see that."

"Right." She bustled over to the coffee table, picking up her purse.

"Remember, business as usual," Jensen advised. "The case is just any other old legal case. Do your administrative work just like always, and anything different focuses on Dr. Hadley's suicide, not on the case. It's okay to react to that, but simply as a tragedy for her, not as a result of the case. Act like you see no connection between the two; she couldn't take her advancing disease, end of story. Be oblivious to even his unintentional victory there, and that, too, will annoy him. I think Patrick has an informant on the inside at the hospital; hard for a total stranger to get into the doctor's lounge without being noticed. He'll be watching and reporting back, and the more nonfunctional and frazzled we seem, the more Patrick will like it."

House abruptly came to attention. "You don't suppose he's got somebody tailing us, do you? To follow us to New York?"

"Actually, I don't. Wouldn't hurt to keep an eye out as we drive, but I think he'll restrict himself to inside information from the hospital, at least on the Princeton end. He no doubt hired a PI from Lexington to get into your mother's psychiatrist's office, but one of the main character points of the mind of a manipulator is arrogance. They can't conceive of things not going as they planned. He's crafted his campaign like a work of art, to him anyway, and he's too busy admiring it to think of any other ways around it. I'm sure he doesn't realize we know the information came through your mother's psychiatrist, for instance; he's imagining you suspecting everybody and cutting off your support system over that. He'll be watching for reports from the hospital of your progressive breakdown, but he could never imagine that we are taking the initiative to fight on actual, not psychological, grounds. A PI here is an unnecessary expense, since to him, there's nothing more to investigate now that his ball is rolling. Using inside informants at the hospital to report on what he is sure will happen actually _helps_ his goal, to his mind, because that's more humiliating to use somebody you know. A PI is not only expensive but impersonal. He doesn't want impersonal. He enjoys the personal aspect. The more he doesn't get what he wanted, the more he will try ramping up psychological attack, but I can't see him abandoning his current strategy, because he is _sure_ his plan will work. He can't admit that it might not work. The more it seems not to, the harder he will embrace and promote it."

House shuddered. "Boy, that's an encouraging thought."

Cuddy broke off preparations to leave to go sit down next to him on the couch and give him a hug. "Jensen is right, Greg. We've got the upper hand right now. We are actually planning a campaign, and he couldn't imagine that we would."

"But you _must_ remain cool, professional, and matter of fact," Jensen reminded her. "The lawyer is just a lawyer. The case is just a case, and furthermore one you have no doubt we will win. Just a matter of going through the legal motions to an inevitable conclusion; that's what you want to project. When you identify the informant on security tapes, don't go after him immediately. Knowing his identity, we can use him to make Patrick fret, and he will be a good surprise witness at the trial when he is subpoenaed at the last minute. Watching him trying to deny everything in court when we have the security tapes, and watching Patrick watch that in court, will be quite revealing to the judge."

"Got it. Although I'm really hoping Plan A works instead and this never comes to trial."

Jensen smiled at her. "So do I. But see how much power we now have over this situation again? Patrick thinks we're totally falling apart mentally, and instead we are conducting two separate strategies, the longer of which definitely beats him even if the more immediate one can't."

"You keep saying we," House noted.

Jensen nodded. "I'm in this all the way with you. And I will _enjoy_ seeing him go down. What he is trying with you is unforgivable."

House studied him, still a bit baffled at such loyalty and indignation on his behalf when just a few days ago, he had been accusing Jensen himself of involvement on Patrick's side. How could the man refuse to hold _any_ grudge against him? Jensen was instead acting like he himself had been attacked by Patrick, not by House.

"I'm on your side," Jensen assured him. "All the way."

"Why?" House asked.

Cuddy hugged him. "Because you are _worth_ it, you thick-headed idiot. You're worth fighting for. You _matter_ to us."

Jensen laughed. "Couldn't have said that better myself."

Wilson's knock was heard just then, and Jensen went to open the door. Cuddy took the opportunity to drop her voice for a semi-private word with House. "Greg, please, be careful in New York."

"Jensen just said he doesn't think Patrick is following us."

"I'm worried about you, not him. Keep me posted. Okay?"

"Okay. I'll even promise to answer my cell phone - from you, anyway."

She kissed him. "See you tonight."

"It'll be late. Lots of miles to cover today."

"I'll wait up." She gave him a final hug, lingering for a moment, then stood up. "You guys have a productive day," she said as she passed Wilson and Jensen by the door. "Let's go nail this bastard."

"Sounds like a good campaign slogan to me," Wilson agreed. "Relax, Cuddy." She glared at him. "Okay, don't relax."

"Just _look_ relaxed," Jensen reminded her.

"Got it. See you later. Be careful today."

"We will," Jensen promised, with Wilson as a slightly delayed echo.

Cuddy left the house, taking a moment to smooth her clothes and put on her persona. The professional administrator, leaving for the day, in control of everything. With a deep breath, she got into her car and headed for PPTH.

(H/C)

The window repairman was just leaving, having measured the window to order a replacement, when Lucas arrived. "House, good to see you again," he said.

"You know all about Wilson," House said. "This is Michael Jensen." He left off any location or occupation. "Let's sit down."

They settled around the living room, and Lucas studied the surroundings. "So you and Cuddy have a great place here. I'm glad you finally got together; I could see the sparks between you two a mile away. How are the girls?"

"Wonderful," House told him, pride showing through the tension for a moment.

"Great. So, what can I do for you, House?"

House handed over a sheet of paper. "Patrick Chandler, living at this address with Ann Bellinger. He used to live at the second address in Syracuse with this woman about 6 months ago. I want absolutely anything on him, complete background, where he's been, who he knew. Preferably any evidence indicating that he's a child abuser. Substitute felonies will be accepted if you can't prove that one. Whatever dirt he has, I want it."

Lucas took all this in with his affable, deceptively innocent front. "All the dirt. Got it. What kind of budget are we talking about here?"

"There isn't one."

That drew a sharper reaction. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Dig until you find a skeleton, whatever it takes, then bring it back to me. There _is_ a skeleton somewhere. Probably several. We just need to find them."

"Child abuse, you said. You know, CPS investigates stuff like that, too, and they have a lot more resources."

"But CPS has to follow the letter of the law. You don't."

Lucas was growing more and more intrigued. "Evidence that doesn't follow the letter of the law isn't exactly admissible in court, you know."

House leaned forward a little. "It's admissible in the court I want it for. Screw the legal system; I need to convince one woman that he's a lying bastard. Convince her, and it will never have to come to court."

Lucas nodded. "A woman, huh? Yeah, they definitely have different rules of evidence. Okay, all possible dirt on Patrick Chandler, felonies preferred, child abuse if possible. Got it. Anything else?"

"I'm going to talk to the woman in Syracuse myself today; she's a distant relative of Jensen's, so she'll see us. So I'll do some up-front digging there on my own, but other than that, the field is yours. Look under all rocks, including Syracuse, just the same. There _has_ to be dirt on him somewhere."

"Okay. What did he do to you?"

House tensed up immediately. "That . . . doesn't matter. You'll probably find out anyway, but the point is what he's done to other people in the past."

Lucas gave him an easy smile. "Got it. That's your business, and I won't get sidetracked making it mine."

House stood up. "Go get him. And I want regular reports. If for some reason you can't contact me right away, you can talk to either Cuddy or Wilson."

"I'll need a deposit. If this is an urgent case -" all three of the other men nodded - "and I'm working only on it, I've got to have some operating money, and it costs me in other easy cases I'm turning down."

House pulled a check, already written, out of his pocket and handed it over. Lucas' eyes widened. "What did this guy do to you?" he asked again.

"It doesn't matter," House repeated firmly.

"Right." Lucas pocketed the check. "Whatever he did, he'll be sorry he took you on. He couldn't have realized who he was dealing with." Lucas nodded to the other two men. "So long." He left the house, and House's shoulders slumped as he let out a deep breath.

"He'll find out," he said. "I just put myself under the microscope, too. He's smarter than he looks."

"It doesn't matter," Jensen reminded him. "If anything, it will add to his determination against Patrick."

"Right," House replied. "Okay, let's hit the road."

"Remember our motto," Wilson reminded him. "Let's go nail this bastard."

House grinned, his shoulders straightening up again, and the three men left the house and piled into Wilson's Volvo.


	33. Chapter 33

Second chapter as a treat, but that's probably it for the next day or so.

(H/C)

PPTH felt oddly like a hostile camp to Cuddy, set up on a battlefield with unknown snipers creeping around the edges. _We _are in control, she reminded herself as she walked across the lobby. Still, she was alert to every look, every whisper, as she never had been before.

"Good morning, Dr. Cuddy," the receptionist at the main desk in the lobby greeted her.

"Good morning," she replied pleasantly.

"Dr. Cuddy? Is it true?" the receptionist continued as she walked by.

Cuddy stopped and turned. _Calm, in control,_ she reminded herself. "Is what true?"

"That Dr. Hadley committed suicide."

Cuddy relaxed a fraction, then felt guilty for doing so, as if she were diminishing what was a true tragedy. "Yes, I'm afraid it is. I will be sending out a general hospital announcement on that, and there will be a grief counselor for hospital staff if anybody wants one."

The receptionist nodded. "I didn't know her that well, but she seemed nice, in a standoffish kind of way. Always like she had something hidden, though. I mean, it's a shock, but she seemed like she had had something on her mind for a while. She never really struck me as happy."

"I will be sending out a memo later this morning, and funeral arrangements will be passed along as soon as I have them," Cuddy replied, refusing to participate in a postmortem on Thirteen's emotions. She turned back toward her office, walking on.

An entire sheaf of messages was handed to her by her sympathetic-looking secretary, and Cuddy cringed. Settling down at her desk, she started to sort them into piles. Some from other board members who had found their own special deliveries about House; she had already talked to a few Friday, but probably calling a general board meeting to address this - purely legally - would be the best strategy. Some, to her relief, involving other things entirely in the hospital business. Some regarding Thirteen. One from Foreman, stating that he was taking time off, which she certainly agreed with. She'd have to talk to him about House, but let him deal with Thirteen first. The man had to be devastated, especially given his own contribution.

One message formed its own pile, squarely in the center of her desk. The opposing lawyer on the case had called. Cuddy counted to 100, did mental yoga, switched to mental darts and found it much more satisfying, then picked up the phone.

"This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, returning Mr. Travis' call."

"Just a moment, please," the secretary replied. A click of the line, a few seconds, and then the lawyer himself picked up.

"Dr. Cuddy, thank you for returning my call."

"Dr. Cuddy-_House_," she emphasized, polite but firm.

"Ah, yes, you are married to the defendant, that's right. We need to set up a conference to discuss this unfortunate matter and investigate the possibility of an out-of-court settlement."

Cuddy gritted her teeth. "I would be glad to set up a conference, as would the hospital lawyers, but I think settlement is not an option here, as looking at the medical facts, you have no case."

The lawyer paused, then continued, his voice smooth as oil. "That, of course, is a matter for the courts. But cases like this can drag out so long; it's much easier to at least have all parties meet and discuss other alternatives. Nobody wants this to go on forever."

"It won't go on forever," Cuddy stated, "just until the trial, where you will lose. But I would be glad to set up a conference, as I said, with hospital attorneys present, of course. It's a waste of time on such a flimsy case, but I realize we have to go through the motions while waiting for trial."

The lawyer clearly had expected fury or revenge but not a tone of almost administrative-sounding boredom. He was silent for a moment. "Mr. Travis?" Cuddy prompted. She was grinning silently at her desk, glad he could not see. Jensen was right. This strategy could be _fun_ at times. She wondered what the lawyer's expression was.

"Yes, I'm still here. I apologize; an urgent message had just come in. What time would be convenient for you and Dr. House?"

"Dr. House is a busy physician and will not be wasting his time on a purely legal matter, especially one that is itself a waste of time. I could meet you -" she pulled over her calendar - "next week on Monday or Tuesday."

"We really would prefer to have all involved parties present, Dr. Cuddy. Dr. House's negligence is clearly a contributing factor in . . . "

"My name is Dr. Cuddy-_House_," she reminded him pleasantly.

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy-House. My apologies. We would prefer Dr. House to be there, given his central role in these issues, and delaying until next week on an urgent matter is not the best strategy, either."

"This isn't an urgent matter," she informed him, her tone purely business. "The most urgent matter for any hospital, of course, is the care of the present patients. Legal cases on former ones, especially legal cases with no grounds whatsover, must fall in line behind that primary goal. _That_ is Dr. House's role at PPTH, treatment of patients, and his reputation professionally speaks for itself as to his qualifications. There is no reason for him to take time away from patients to attend this conference, and there is no reason for me to urgently clear a spot for it on this week's schedule. It will be several weeks until trial, anyway."

Another startled pause. "Wouldn't you like to get this whole thing resolved as soon as possible, Dr. Cuddy . . . sorry, Dr. Cuddy-House?"

"Yes, actually, but as soon as possible will be in court, where all the evidence is considered and where the medical facts will ensure our victory. PPTH is perfectly willing to wait for our day in court, and I cannot see us accepting any settlement prior to that." Her secretary knocked on the door. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Travis, I have another matter I need to deal with. Let my secretary know when you want to meet me and the hospital lawyers next week, and we will hold the conference, but do not be expecting any offer in compromise. We intend to see this clear through to trial. Thank you, and have a good day." Cuddy hung up the phone and smiled broadly at the entering secretary. "Yes, what is it?"

"A representative of the insurance company is here to discuss the contract."

Cuddy sighed. Business as usual. "Thank you. Send him in."

The routine conference with the insurance representative steadied her and also took up some of her nervous energy and used it productively. Afterward, she put together a general hospital memo of announcement and condolence regarding Thirteen, then left the office, heading for the fourth floor.

Kutner and Taub were in the conference room, Taub reading a professional journal, Kutner orbiting the edge of the room and fidgeting with House's thinking ball. He jumped as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar as Cuddy came in. "I'm sorry," she said to both of them. "Both of you can have personal time off if you want it, and I've arranged a grief counselor to be available, too."

"How is . . ." Kutner started, then broke off with a guilty look at Taub. He wasn't sure if Foreman's attack was public knowledge. Cuddy was glad to see that Kutner, at least, seemed to be practicing discretion.

"Dr. Foreman is taking some time off, of course. Dr. House is taking today off; he wanted a long drive to think about Dr. Hadley and process her death. He should be in tomorrow."

"Is he okay?" Kutner couldn't help asking.

"He will be. It was a shock to him, like all of us."

Taub closed his journal. "He will be coming back, though? Does this department still exist?"

Cuddy met his eyes directly, hers flashing an unmistakable message. "Why wouldn't he be coming back, Dr. Taub?"

Taub, practiced at backing down from conflicts, took the easy way out of this one. "Nothing. Just wondered." He picked up his journal again.

"If you two wish to work today, which is your choice, you can put in time in the clinic," Cuddy stated. "Or you may go home if you like." The unspoken addendum that they couldn't just waste time doing nothing was attached, and both doctors heard it.

"I'll do clinic," Kutner said, heading into House's office to return the ball to its rightful spot. Taub didn't say anything but stood up and headed out with the other fellow. Cuddy stood in the conference room for a moment. How empty this whole suite felt without its heart; House was the engine that drove the entire department. She wandered into his office and picked up the ball herself, turning it gently in her hand.

Her cell phone rang, and she pulled it out with her other hand, then answered quickly. "Greg?"

"Checking in as requested. We just left the house."

"Did Lucas come?"

"Yes. He's on the job, and we're heading for Syracuse."

She flinched, imagining what 9 hours on the road today would do to his still-sore leg. He had plenty of meds with him, but even so. "Be sure to stop and stretch your legs every hour."

"I will," he snapped, a razor thin edge of tension glistening through his voice.

She backed off. "I know. I just have to worry anyway. You know me."

"How's your day so far?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Had a conversation with the lawyer. That was really almost fun; he had to keep the professional front, but he was totally confused. I just talked to . . . your team."

"What's left of it, anyway."

"It's okay, Greg. We'll move on past this."

"Better let you go. I'll talk to you later." He suddenly sounded like he wanted to escape yet another personal conversation about his feelings. She could sympathize; the poor man had had a marathon of sessions this weekend.

"You'd better talk to me later. I love you, Greg."

"Love you, too. Bye."

He hung up, and Cuddy squared her shoulders and put down his ball. She glanced at her watch - about 20 minutes to fax time - and headed back downstairs. She took the stairs, and that was how she heard the conversation going on in the second floor stairwell before she got there. She paused to listen.

"And it said that his father actually nailed him down to the floor!"

A gasp of disbelief. "Oh, poor Dr. House! Everybody says he's just a jerk, but I always knew there was more to the story. Anybody who could play the piano like that at his wedding is . . ."

Cuddy was just about to march on down the stairs in righteous indignation at this stairwell gossip when another voice halted the conversation. Brenda had beaten her to it.

"_What_ is going on here?"

"Brenda, did you hear? There's been a legal case filed saying all kinds of awful things, and that's why Dr. Hadley killed herself and why Dr. House acts like . . ."

Brenda's tone would have cut steel. "Did _you_ hear? There's a policy called HIPAA. It prohibits medical professionals - which would include us - from revealing personally-identifiable information that we come across in the course of our jobs."

"But I just . . ."

"No matter who else revealed it first, once we have learned it on the job, we are required to respect privacy. I believe the penalties for a violation of that can be a $25,000 fine per occurrence per employee."

Resounding silence.

"We are here at work, doing our jobs. If you can't do yours professionally, turn in your notice. What if a patient overheard you, or a family member? These are not private stairwells."

"But there's nobody here. We looked."

"Wrong," Cuddy stated, taking her cue. She came around the landing into view. The gossiping nurse nearly had a heart attack on the spot. "In view of the shock over Dr. Hadley's death, I am willing to overlook your blatant disregard of privacy - ONCE. If I ever hear of you discussing the private issues of hospital staff on the job again, you are immediately terminated. Is that understood?"

Both nurses were as white as their uniforms. "Yes," the gossiper said meekly. The other one just nodded, looking like she had lost the ability to speak.

"You may get back to your jobs now," Cuddy suggested pointedly. They immediately turned and left, nearly tripping in their hurry to get out of there.

Cuddy waited until the stairwell door had shut. "Thank you, Brenda," she said.

Brenda's eyes were full of sympathetic concern. "You're welcome. Is Dr. House in today? I haven't seen him."

"He'll be back tomorrow. Dr. Hadley's death was a shock to him, but life goes on."

Brenda nodded. "Tell him . . . no, on second thought, don't tell him."

Cuddy smiled regretfully. "Thank you, Brenda."

"You're welcome." Brenda continued her journey up as Cuddy went the rest of the way down and recrossed the lobby to her office. She made a mental note of the gossiper, just in case that had been an informant, but she couldn't imagine somebody on Patrick's payroll being so totally lacking in subtlety. It suddenly occurred to her that another advantage of House being gone today but her being here was that she could take the front line on hospital reaction and hopefully defuse some sympathy before he had to face it.

The private fax started regurgitating paperwork just a few minutes after 10:00, and Cuddy stood at it, waiting. Many, many sheets emerged. When she was sure it was finished, she took the whole stack back to her desk.

A face sheet was on top, with a note added in Blythe's handwriting. "Lisa, I've had another idea I think would help, but I need Greg's permission first, since it might involve another court case. Call me later." Cuddy crumpled it up, then straightened it out again and fed it to the shredder. Whatever Blythe's ideas that might help were, she had less than zero interest in hearing them, and the last thing House needed was another court case.

Below that were the therapy notes, an encapsulation of a year and a half worth of sessions. Cuddy started reading, specifically looking for details about House, but her interest was irrevocably caught by the general record. As far as House was concerned, the carpet glue episode with the nails was indeed mentioned, as were ice baths, sleeping outside, beatings, the stairs, and the phrase, "I'm sorry." To Cuddy's relief, Jensen was not mentioned anywhere, not by name nor location. She trusted the psychiatrist implicitly, but she would have hated to see Patrick's minions try to break into Jensen's office for that set of far-more-extensive notes.

It was the slowly emerging tale of Blythe herself that stunned Cuddy. Blythe had married against her family's wishes, captivated by the image of the military hero, overriding her mother's instinctive reservations. Married life had slowly been stifled, and she had soon discovered John's extreme controlling streak, but there had never been a hint of violence against her. It was, rather, a record of the step-by-step subtle diminishing of a person, a gradual siege by John rather than a direct attack. No flowers. As little as possible contact with family or friends. No interests of her own. The wall had been built so gradually that Blythe had never truly realized that it was a wall until looking back after years. The affair that led to Greg had been one of her few rebellions against the overwhelming control. Greg actually gave her an interest in the house, a bright spot of joy in the home, and John had eventually lightened up on the no social contacts rules a few years after that, letting her join a few clubs, although he had to approve them. Blythe's conclusion in sessions that her nights out gave John private time with Greg was followed by the professional statement, "Patient once again broke down sobbing." But Greg had been the light of her life. As unbelievable as it seemed, and Blythe herself found it equally unbelievable now, she truly had had no idea, and the guilt over that ate at her. Many times, she stated that she would have left immediately with Greg if she had realized.

The entire case summary was one of much more subtle brainwashing than had been used on Greg but still brainwashing, the gradual elimination of personal initiative, the installation of an immediate, automatic subjugation to male authority. Blythe was working and making progress in therapy, working both on processing the past and on more spontaneous self-expression - the flowers, the travel club, things _she_ had always wanted to do. Her psychiatrist seemed to be competent, but the story emerging through the notes made Cuddy for the first time realize fully that Blythe, under the firm guidelines of his requirements of a good wife, had been a victim herself of John, just as Greg had, albeit with no actual physical damage. For the first time, Cuddy understood why the initial reaction to someone so similar to John as Patrick had been going along with him, letting him steer the course of conversation, rather than questioning his motives. It was a conditioned reaction over decades, a trigger like those of Greg's flashbacks, that she would respond to automatically, subconsciously recognizing the controlling authority even when cloaked under the veneer of politeness. It wasn't that Blythe had failed to recognize Patrick; it was that she _had_ recognized him and had responded by letting him take the lead and being pleasantly cooperative, as had been drilled into her. Cuddy wondered what sort of session Blythe was having this morning down in Lexington, probably one that, for her, was almost as difficult as those House had had with Jensen this weekend.

Cuddy carefully locked the notes in her top desk drawer, then got up to draw the blinds and lock her office door. Retreating to the privacy of her bathroom, she broke down sobbing herself, this time both for her husband and for the first time, reluctantly, also for his mother.


	34. Chapter 34

Wilson's driving was much like him, presenting a polished, professional appearance to the world, the Volvo smoothly swallowing the highway toward Syracuse, only occasionally a brief second of abruptness on a lane change or other maneuver to indicate that there was a fairly fast current with some interfering rocks hidden under the surface. Wilson was indeed tying himself into worry knots, partly on House's behalf, partly on his own, and trying to conceal both of those from House. He didn't want to push his friend, who had a very hard day ahead of him physically and emotionally. However, he also didn't want to prompt House into picking his lapse as an appropriate alternative subject, a conversation which would lay himself wide open to more of House's barbs while he was being censored from making a full defense. So he stayed fairly quiet. The Volvo glided down the road, smooth, even, in control.

House was definitely edgy, which both concerned Wilson and relieved him; his friend showed no inclination at the moment to dive back into a razor-sharp dissection of the oncologist's infidelity. Instead, House divided the journey between staring out at the passing scenery and quizzing Jensen, in the back seat, about how much exactly the psychiatrist had had to tell Melissa the previous night and how much Melissa in turn had told her cousin to get today's interview set up so quickly. His leg also was not appreciating the road trip, although they carefully stopped every hour at the most to let him walk around a few minutes. The concession only made the need for it more annoyingly obvious.

"All she said was that we had some questions about Patrick," Jensen reassured House for the umpteenth time. The psychiatrist tried for a slight diversion. "Actually, I asked a few questions myself back after the wedding, when you first warned me about him. But Melissa said that she didn't think Lanah had custody of her child anymore and wasn't even having her on weekends, so I left it. I just wanted to make sure that Patrick wasn't living with a child."

House cocked his head, looking back over the seat. "You asked questions just based on my warning that night?" Jensen nodded. "I didn't have anything to go on at that point."

"You had instinct," Jensen countered. "Quite good instinct. You trust it on the job; you ought to trust it more personally."

House dodged the compliment and returned to his main theme of the trip. "What did you tell Melissa? Back then, I mean."

Jensen sighed. "Just general questions. I only told her I'd wondered about him and her cousin, didn't say why. She's willing to leave things alone if I want and trust that there _is_ a reason."

Wilson took the next exit. "About time to stop for lunch," he suggested. He was starting to place mental bets with himself on how many versions of this conversation he'd have to listen to today. Who knew what and exactly how much of it was definitely the Mount Everest looming with a jagged peak at the center of House's thoughts.

His statement at least succeeded in distracting House temporarily to the thought that was running second on this trip. "It's only been 45 minutes. Stop trying to baby me."

"I'm trying to take advantage of the large choice of fast food at this exit," Wilson snapped. "I'm not going on another 15 miles to a wide spot on the interstate just to let you make a point."

Jensen stepped in smoothly. "It is lunch time, Dr. House, and James is right about the selection. If we go on through this town, we'll have a while until the next one."

"Thank you," Wilson snapped. "I'm glad you agree with me on _something." _The Volvo took off just a bit too quickly from the stop light at the head of the exit ramp, and Wilson immediately reined it in and proceeded in full control.

House tilted his head, attention caught. "What does he not agree . . . oh, you mean your extracurricular activities."

"So, do you want McDonald's, Taco Bell, Waffle House. . ." Wilson quickly started listing the options clustered on the small strip near the highway.

"McDonald's is closest," Jensen suggested. "By the way, Melissa wants to invite both of you to dinner with us in Middletown tonight."

House immediately tensed up again, his thoughts swinging back like a compass to the subject that was true north at the moment. "Are you sure you didn't tell her everything?"

"She knows there is a legal case, like I said, and that I consider it a crisis. She knows now that it involves Patrick. She doesn't know the subject matter of the legal challenge."

"Then why would she want to have us to dinner if she's not just feeling sorry for me?"

Wilson rolled his eyes as he turned into McDonald's. "Because we would be going through there anyway delivering Jensen home at pretty close to dinnertime. It's common courtesy, House. Not that you'd know much about that." House also would be due for meds, some of which needed to be taken with food, and the last thing he needed today was to get too far off schedule with them. But Wilson wisely refrained from listing that in the pros column.

"Besides, Cathy would like to see you," Jensen added.

"How much does . . ."

"She knows even less than Melissa," Jensen stated firmly. "She just knows there is a problem. Nothing more. She just enjoys spending time with you."

House looked utterly baffled at that concept for a moment, then opened the car door as the Volvo came to a stop. He hauled himself out stiffly and limped toward the restaurant without waiting for his companions.

Wilson let out a deep breath. "We get to enjoy nine hours of this today? Or rather I do. You'll at least miss the last two."

"It's harder on him than us," Jensen pointed out.

The oncologist immediately felt guilty. "I know. I can't imagine what he's going through with all this."

"Remember, James, do not tell him about that phone call. Not even after you've dropped me off tonight."

"I won't," Wilson snapped, annoyed. It still frosted him that Jensen had put that restriction on in the first place. Stating a simple fact - that a phone call had been missed - was _not_ equivalent to blaming the non-recipient, no matter what Jensen said. But Wilson couldn't risk losing his own sessions. Jensen had been working through many things in his past with him, sorting out the whole situation past and present with Danny, and it was helping immensely. Wilson couldn't imagine facing his brother's tempestuous course without the solid rock of those sessions to hang onto. "I won't tell him," he promised.

House had disappeared into the restaurant, but now he opened the door again and looked back out. "You two coming? I'd like to get to Syracuse before Christmas."

"We'll make it by Thanksgiving at the latest," Wilson tossed back, feeling slightly better for the exchange. That almost felt normal, which not much had since Friday. He looked back over at Jensen as they started across the parking lot. "You can tell Melissa that we would be glad to have dinner in Middletown with you tonight. We'd appreciate it, not that House will ever say that."

"He will. He just won't use words," Jensen replied.

(H/C)

Back at PPTH, Cuddy stood in utter fury, fists clenched. She had gone back up to House's office to check on last week's patient, making sure the case he'd had Friday before everything blew up had been solved. It had, with the conclusion noted in Taub's tightly controlled handwriting on the file on his desk. But while she was there, she noticed the message light blinking on House's office phone, and she hit play just to see if it was something urgent.

The lawyer's smooth voice filled the office. "Dr. House, this is Reginald Travis of Travis, Becham, and Long. I represent Ms. Bellinger in this unfortunate matter. I'm sorry to hear that you won't be joining us in a conference to discuss settlement. We'd much rather get this matter nailed down as soon as possible rather than just putting the case on ice, but of course, if you insist on waiting until court, that's your prerogative. I'm sorry I won't be seeing you before then. Please call my office if you change your mind."

Cuddy was literally shaking in anger by the end of that. The delivery was utterly perfect, just the slightest subliminal emphasis on "I'm sorry," "nailed down," and "ice," but nothing that a casual listener would even detect. A business message, no more. She firmly hit delete, then switched the speaker off so that message would not play out loud as they were taken, then pulled out her cell phone.

House picked up on the first ring. "Lisa? What's up?"

She took a deep breath. "I just found a message on your office phone that the lawyer had left. A very personally significant message." He understood instantly. She heard his comprehension in the silence. "I deleted it. I just wanted to warn you, don't answer the phone, not even in your office, unless it's somebody you know is safe. And I think it would be a good idea to have me or Wilson screen your messages before you hear them."

He sighed. "Okay."

"It's not weakness, Greg. Acknowledging your limits is strength, remember. But this . . . this damned _snake_ is deliberately trying to bait you. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"Just as long as you take your own advice. Don't give him the satisfaction."

She let out a deep breath. "I know. Absolutely smooth, routine. Don't give him any reaction. I had lessons from Jensen all last night. How's the trip going?"

"We're stopped for lunch. By the way, we're going to eat at Jensen's tonight on the way through Middletown. That will delay things a little further, but we had to eat dinner somewhere anyway."

It also would give him a longer break than a 5-minute leg-stretch session, although she was sure Jensen hadn't pointed that out. "Good idea. Let me know how it goes this afternoon, okay?"

"I will. Love you."

"Love you, too. Be careful, Greg." She couldn't resist adding that last. No matter how valuable a function she was performing here holding down the PPTH fort, she would have rather been with him.

"I'm always careful," he responded, and she laughed, at least some of the tension broken.

"Yeah, right. See you tonight."

"See you then. Bye."

Cuddy returned her phone to her pocket, then left his office, heading for security. She had an informing weasel to catch.


	35. Chapter 35

Melissa's cousin was a tired-looking woman who answered the door as if that alone were an effort. "Come on in," she said, holding the door open. "Excuse the mess. I've tried to clean it up a little."

The smallish house was not so much messy as it was unkempt. There were no piles of things on the floor, no dishes left all around, no general announcements of "It's MY place, and I don't care what you think" such as are scattered almost proudly like badges of honor around some dwellings. This was the home of a person who did actually care what it looked like but lacked the energy for extras. While the floor was picked up and the dishes visible through the door to the kitchen were stacked neatly, the place hadn't been dusted or vacuumed in weeks.

The three men sat down, leaving her what apparently was her favorite chair - a still-steaming cup of tea and a magazine were on the small table beside it. A tabby cat was curled on the chair arm, and as Lanah sat back down, the cat edged closer to her, putting a paw protectively on her arm and gazing firmly at the intruders as if to state that she would defend her mistress to the death. The cat was well fed, unlike Lanah herself, who judging from the fit of her clothes had been losing weight lately. She was definitely thinner than she had been at the wedding, House noted.

"We appreciate you seeing us so quickly," Jensen started. He had been elected unanimously as spokesman during the drive up, for his conversational skills as much as for his distant claim to family relationship. "We hope we aren't interfering with your work schedule."

She shook her head. "I work Tuesday through Saturday. I was off today anyway."

"Then forgive us for intruding on your day off."

"I didn't have plans. Now that Crystal is . . ." She paused and took a gulp of tea, then ran one hand along the cat for comfort. "Melissa said you had some questions about Pat."

"Yes, we do. First of all, though, I'd like to hear about Crystal. She's your daughter?"

The tired eyes lit up for the first time. "Yes." Lanah pointed to a cluster of pictures on the wall. "She's such a sweet little girl. Things seemed different when she was here, but . . ."

"How old is she?" House asked, studying the pictures. Some of the girl alone, some with her mother. A smiling child with dark pigtails and green eyes. She looked happy.

"She's four. She'll be five in January."

"Does her father have custody?" Jensen asked gently.

The spark in her eyes flickered and died. "Yes." Lanah took another sip of tea, and the cat edged closer.

"Forgive the question, but why?" Jensen asked. "Judges usually favor the mother for custody, and you certainly don't seem unfit. Judging from those pictures, she was happy, and you obviously adore her."

Lanah's eyes fell to her lap. "Her father . . . have you ever been through a divorce?"

"Yes," Jensen replied.

"Three of them," Wilson sighed, startling Lanah out of her thoughts. She eyed the oncologist with a mild flare of curiosity before continuing.

"Jack turned bitter. Did yours want to make a fight out of everything?"

Jensen shook his head, but Wilson commiserated. "That happens sometimes."

"He's the one who cheated, but when he told me, I insisted on counseling and a firm commitment from then on. He didn't think it was a big deal, just said he'd been drunk, but then he admitted it had happened before. I didn't buy his excuses and asked him to leave." Wilson was cringing, and House felt torn between almost amusement at watching his friend try not to squirm and sympathy for Lanah. "He hired a lawyer who twisted all kinds of things." House's amusement died instantly. "He dragged it out, kept trying to prove me unfit, made Jack out like a saint."

"Why didn't your lawyer fight for you?" Jensen asked.

Lanah shook her head in disgust. "MY lawyer was pro bono. I wasn't even working when we were married - stayed at home with Crystal. Even now, I'm just working at Wal-Mart. Jack was the one with all the income, and he cleared the joint account when he left. He tried to make me run out of money, then had somebody break in to take pictures of the almost-empty refrigerator." She blinked back tears. "I did get depressed around the time Jack left, I'll admit it. But even at the worst, Crystal NEVER went hungry. I did a few times, but not her. I had friends who tried to help when I finally told them how bad it was, but he kept on fighting, and I just . . ." She trailed off.

"You eventually started believing yourself that the child was better off with her father," Jensen suggested.

She nodded, sniffling a bit. "He had money. He had more to offer her."

"Bullshit," House stated. Lanah looked over at him, surprised. "Don't mistake money for love. That's an adult mistake; kids don't make it. That picture says it all; you were NOT an unfit mother. No pictures there of her with her father, I notice, but look at those sometime and compare to how she looks with you."

She gave him a weak smile. "Thank you." The cat climbed off the arm of the chair into her lap, and she stroked her. "I got depressed, like I said. It just got so hard to make myself get up and keep fighting. It still is, to be honest. I just don't have energy for anything; I have to make myself go to work."

"Have you seen a doctor?" Jensen asked, switching irresistibly into professional mode.

"Oh, I'm on Prozac. I have been for months, but it's not doing much."

"Go back and tell him that," the psychiatrist insisted. "There are other antidepressants. It's a medical condition that can be medically treated."

She looked over at the pictures on the wall again. "I suppose. Anyway, when we finally got to trial, the judge gave Jack full custody. I can go see her at Jack's house every other Sunday." She sighed. "Actually, I met Pat through all this. Melissa said you were interested in him." Melissa apparently hadn't said why, and Lanah oddly didn't seem to wonder.

"Patrick got involved with you during the process of the divorce?" Jensen asked.

"He doesn't like that name, you know. He'd get mad when I called him that."

"We know," House replied with satisfaction.

"How did you meet him?" Jensen prompted.

"I was seeing my lawyer, and Pat was down at the courthouse. He seemed so nice and sympathetic. He would _listen_. Asked me all about myself and Crystal, and he said what you did, that judges usually favored the mother. He'd be encouraging and tell me things would work out, and Crystal would stay with me. Then he started hanging around and helping . . . Call me old fashioned, but I didn't want him to actually move in and sleep with me until after the divorce was finalized. But he'd always baby sit when I finally found a job. He said he'd save me that expense."

"Didn't he have a job?"

"Yes, but he worked mornings, he said. He was always around in the evenings, and my job at Wal-Mart is second shift. He always wanted to babysit, anytime I needed him."

"What was his job?" House asked.

She looked puzzled. "I don't know. He never talked much about himself."

"And you never asked?" Wilson asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his tone.

Her eyes fell again. "I was depressed, like I said. So much was going on. I . . . he was _there_. He was interested in what was happening. That's more than most people were." She trailed off, fighting back tears.

"We're sorry to have to ask these questions and remind you of that time," Jensen said. "Would you like to take a break?"

She seized the opportunity. "Would you all like a cup of tea?"

Jensen immediately agreed, sensing that she wanted a private moment in the kitchen, and House and Wilson were a slightly delayed echo. Lanah heaved herself to her feet and disappeared kitchenward.

House's voice was extremely soft but deadly. "The man is a predator. I'll bet he was hanging around the courthouse watching for an overwhelmed woman with a small kid. Divorce attorneys or family court must be a shopping market to him." House's eyes were blue lasers of fury.

Jensen nodded. "This man needs to be brought down. I wonder how many women with small children Lucas will turn up in his past."

"If we can prove a pattern, that alone might make Ann Bellinger think twice," Wilson stated. "Nobody wants to be #11 in a line. And if they _all_ had young children, that's suspicious itself, even without direct proof."

The cat jumped down from Lanah's chair, walked across to House, and studied him, head tilted slightly, eyes unblinking, analyzing his presence in her house. Wilson was abruptly struck by the resemblance and snickered. "She looks like you," he pointed out when House shot him a questioning look.

Jensen looked from the cat to House and laughed himself. "Must say, there _is_ a resemblance."

"Yeah, right. I was a tabby cat in a former life. Multiple differences here, the main one being that I'm a biped with a higher intellect, and she's a quadruped with a tail and doesn't think about much except naps and toy mice," House scoffed. The cat immediately jumped up onto his lap, landing carefully on the left leg, and sat there, studying his face closer up. "Get lost, cat," House commanded. She took that as her cue to lie down across his good thigh and started purring.

"Oh, drop the game, House," Wilson advised. "I've seen you with Belle. You enjoy having a cat."

"It's Rachel's cat," House insisted. "Birthday present. Remember?"

"And you don't like her at all yourself," Wilson persisted, perversely enjoying needling House for something as House had needled him for his purely accidental slip the other night.

Jensen stepped in. "Actually, you should take it as a compliment, Dr. House." House looked over at him. "Cats are excellent judges of character."

House considered that, then grinned. "You know how Belle reacts to Wilson?"

Jensen rewound the last weekend mentally, but he couldn't remember any direct interactions. Belle had been almost Velcroed to House this weekend. "How?"

"She doesn't dislike him, but she won't stay in his lap long, either. She jumps up, sniffs him over like she's taking inventory of where he's been, gives him a scolding look, and jumps back down."

Wilson gritted his teeth, biting off his comeback only through extreme effort and a warning look from Jensen. Damn it, he didn't care _how_ stress-relieving it was for House to poke fun at his friend, he was going to find some safe, Jensen-approved withering replies even if it took him a day or two to think them up.

Lanah returned to the living room just then, carrying two cups in each hand, and she stopped in surprise, studying the cat on House's thigh. "Cleo likes you."

"Apparently," House replied. "This was _her_ idea, not mine."

"She usually takes a little while to warm up to strangers." Lanah passed around the tea, then resumed her seat, and the cat looked from House to her and then back to House, head on a swivel.

House couldn't take it. Having a completely strange cat be sympathetic, as this one obviously was to his unknown-to-her crisis, and debating which of them was more in need of feline comfort was over the limit of House's tolerance. He pushed at her. "Scat." She blinked at him. "Go over there. Your person is back. Scram." She yawned, and Wilson laughed.

"Why don't you just boost her off if you don't like cats?"

House boosted the tabby to the floor, though gently, and she shot him a reproachful look, then returned to the other chair to jump back up into Lanah's lap. Lanah was smiling weakly, the first time they had seen any indication of humor in her.

"Did the cat like Patrick?" Jensen asked abruptly.

Lanah's smile faded. "Actually, no. She avoided him. She'd stay on the other side of the room and just watch him, and he'd get mad at her."

"Did he get mad a lot?"

"Not too often. He'd snap about something, get annoyed at things, but it would blow over quickly. He was so sweet and supportive; I couldn't blame him for getting tired of hearing it all sometimes."

"How was he supportive?"

"He listened. He was a great listener. And like I said, he'd babysit."

"Did Crystal like him?" Jensen asked.

Lanah looked thoughtful. "She . . . she could take a while to warm up to people, too. She didn't know him that long. She didn't object to him, always did what he said. He never had any trouble with her; that's what he said himself. He got annoyed by kids who didn't behave, and he'd always sound satisfied that she had manners."

"Did most people have trouble with her? Is she a temperamental child?"

"Oh, no, she's quiet but really so bright. Just watching things. She doesn't throw fits; I remember she'd be looking at other kids in the store sometimes, when they were carrying on, and she'd be looking at them like they were in the cages at the zoo." House smiled, completely identifying with that point. "She was never a problem. Just wasn't that friendly with strangers."

"Did she have any problems sleeping?" House asked suddenly.

Lanah frowned. "Well, there at the end of the time I had her, she'd wake up a few times having nightmares. She would never say what they were. I thought she was picking up on the stress, with the process of the divorce and all."

House shuddered, seeing this picture more clearly each second. Of course she wouldn't tell. No more than Christopher had, no more than House himself had.

Jensen stepped in quickly with his next question. "What happened to Patrick? Why did he leave?"

Lanah looked down at the cat in her lap. "He left about a month after the divorce was finalized. He was mad at me for not insisting on visitation here and always just seeing Crystal at Jack's place. I just got depressed, like I said; I couldn't keep fighting. I'd lost, anyway. He mailed me a letter and left one day."

"Mailed you a letter?" Wilson asked in disbelief.

She nodded. "He said . . . I obviously didn't really care . . ." She broke down there, tears streaming. The men gave her a moment, Jensen and Wilson watching her sympathetically, House looking away, uncomfortable with the raw emotions. "I'm sorry," she gulped finally. House flinched.

"No, _we're_ sorry," Jensen insisted. "We regret having to put you through this." He stood up. "You've been a lot of help to us. Thank you." Wilson echoed the thanks; House was still conducting a differential on the room. "One more thing. Please see your doctor and ask for a change in medication. Depression is treatable, and yours clearly isn't responding to what you're on now."

She headed for the door. "I will. I hope I helped some, whatever you wanted."

"Maybe you'll get Crystal back some day," Wilson suggested, unable to resist offering comfort to someone in pain, even if it was based on nothing but hope.

"One last piece of advice," House stated, hesitating on the doorstep after they left the house.

"What?" Lanah asked.

"Go see an internist and have him run some blood levels, vitamin D I think, so start there. You don't just have simple depression. You've got a vitamin deficiency, either from diet or your body is no longer absorbing it properly. You've probably had it for months, and that affected the whole battle for Crystal. Vitamins are pesky little things, but they can take over your life. Treat that, and it's a whole new world. And once you're on treatment, be sure you find a different lawyer who actually cares when you go after your kid again." House turned away and limped down the sidewalk to join the others, leaving Lanah standing absolutely stunned in the doorway.


	36. Chapter 36

A/N: The 3-times-perfect practice policy was instituted by my grandmother and nearly killed my own piano lessons at the beginning. I well remember the frustration of that first year and a half of piano under her supervision (she kept us after school until Mom got home from work, so practice was at her house). It was Mom, the inspiration for Jensen, who worked out the problem and intervened when I asked to quit piano. She wound up letting me practice alone, and I started to really discover the pieces, nor did the technical quest for the right notes suffer. Probably many 7-year-old kids wouldn't practice piano more successfully alone, but I did. I'm sure Grandmother's strategy would work for some people; obviously worked for her, as she could play quite well. But it didn't work for my personality and actually made music frustrating. Interestingly, in vocal music, which I'm quite seriously into (on a semipro level) and much more talented at than piano, the director, while being appropriately picky on piece work on specific measures, is always careful to let us run it whole regularly regardless, to get a feel for the gestalt of the piece, and the first sight-read through of a new piece is almost always a straight run beginning to end, let the chips fall where they may. Anyway, a bit of personal practice strategy history in this chapter.

Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is a marvelous, intricate thing, one which most people have heard even if they don't know it by its true name. For a wonderful presentation of it including a visual "transcription" of the notes so you can see and admire the whole tapestry, go to Youtube and search for Smalin Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The one at the top of the search list with almost 10 million hits is the one you want. Sit back, watch, listen, and enjoy! It is, as House noted, an organ piece at heart, but it has been transposed to other instruments and also to full orchestra, where it was used in the movie Fantasia.

Enjoy!

(H/C)

The Volvo surged down the highway toward Middletown. Wilson kept having to watch the speed and pull back. He wasn't a chronic speeder, but the more he thought about Patrick's emerging pattern of behavior, the more the car seemed to accelerate. "I wonder how many others are out there," he said, shaking his head. "Odd that he hasn't left Ann yet, with Christopher gone."

"Obviously, Dr. House distracted him. He needs to finish meeting this challenge to his warped authority first," Jensen replied. He studied House, somewhat concerned. House had been very quiet since they left Lanah's, mostly staring out the window. His worried gnawing on the bone of who knew what that had so characterized the trip up was absent now. "Dr. House?"

House jumped slightly. "What?"

"Are you okay?" Lousy question to ask House, but Jensen couldn't use the usual extended methods to the heart of the matter with Wilson in the car. House would never allow any kind of in-depth session with Wilson as an audience; even Cuddy had only been allowed in this weekend, and that under slightly warped reasoning. Jensen knew House would just say he was fine, but the psychiatrist wanted to observe _how_ he said it.

House's eyes slid sideways to Wilson briefly. "Fine." He ran one hand along his thigh. "The leg is just acting up some. Too many hours on the road today."

If House was actually offering his leg, which he hated talking about, as a distraction topic, he definitely wasn't fine. However, he clearly didn't want to delve too much into this swamp of emotion in front of Wilson, and Jensen reluctantly respected that. "Have you given Dr. Cuddy a report yet?" he asked, knowing that House hadn't. Not that a cell phone report would really get into feelings, either, but Jensen thought that simply talking to Cuddy, hearing her voice, might help.

"No," House responded. "Good point; she's probably waiting on pins and needles." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.

"Greg? What happened at Syracuse?" Not only pins and needles but quite sharp ones.

"We're starting to get a better picture of how he operates. The cousin has a daughter, 4 years old. Lost the kid in an extended, nasty divorce back at the beginning of the year; she's got vitamin D deficiency, and she's been trying to treat it with antidepressants, unsuccessfully of course. She didn't have any energy or fight in her."

Cuddy smiled in spite of her worry. That insertion of the medical fact along the way was _so_ like House. "You told her that, I presume?"

"Yep. Regular injections, and her ex won't know what hit him. Makes you wish everything could be fixed with a shot."

"Are you okay?" He didn't sound quite right to her, although she couldn't put her finger on it. Not just Patrick, not just his leg, not just everybody knowing.

"Fine. Anyway, Patrick apparently hangs around divorce lawyer offices and courthouses and watches for women with little kids. Not that she realized that, of course. _She_ thought he was a great listener. Never talked about himself, but so interested in her problems and always willing to babysit."

Cuddy felt like she'd been stabbed in the heart with an icicle. "Oh my God."

"Exactly. When the mother lost custody, Patrick lost interest. He only wants the kids. The two we know about were the same age, too; I wonder if that's a constant."

"At least her daughter is safe now."

"Ironic, losing custody of her kid actually benefited her, even if the father is a jackass. Better living with a jackass than a monster."

"Maybe she'll get her back when she gets the right treatment."

"Hopefully. Wish you could have heard that conversation; Mom isn't the only gullible woman around." He heard her silence grow louder. "Did the fax come?"

"Yes. It was . . . enlightening. About you, it's pretty much the basic memories. He's got several triggers to work on there; I'll give you details later."

"Did the notes mention Jensen anywhere?"

"No. They say in general that you had been getting therapy, but no specifics at all."

House let out a breath of relief. "Good. Actually, maybe we could have caught a PI if he tried to break into Jensen's with the security system, but even so, I'd rather keep Patrick away from there."

"Are you okay, Greg?"

"Fine. I'll see you tonight late, okay?"

"Okay. Give me an ETA a lot closer in, and I'll have the hot tub all filled up and ready."

He ran his hand along his leg again, actually feeling the pain this time. It was indeed objecting to today's activities. The hot tub sounded like paradise. "I will. See you then." He clicked off and resumed staring out the window, but the tension along his jaw line was a little bit less, Jensen thought.

About 20 minutes later, they saw the sign for a rest area, apparently a large one. "Why don't we take a break?" Jensen suggested.

House looked at his watch and scowled. "It's only 50 minutes."

Wilson put on the blinker and headed into the rest area. "Oddly enough, House, they didn't space out the rest areas and exits along the highway just to match your agenda." He pulled into a parking place.

Jensen got out first, fishing in his pocket, and then handed Wilson a handful of change. "Go get us all a Coke," he directed, nodding toward the vending machines, which were a fair walk away, in a separate hut on well beyond the restroom building. His eyes locked on Wilson's with the secondary, subliminal message: _Take your time._ Wilson nodded, took the change, and headed off.

Jensen rounded the car to the passenger's side where House was prying himself stiffly out. He might have tried to use his leg as a distraction earlier, but it really was acting up. "How are you holding up?" Jensen asked, not limiting the question to physically.

"Okay," House replied. He took a few steps, limping the length of the car.

"Let's walk for a bit," Jensen suggested. He started the opposite direction from the restrooms and vending machines, taking the sidewalk the other way toward the dog-walking area, which was totally deserted. They were heading away from what little traffic there was in the rest stop. House fell into step beside him, a confirmation in itself, as he could have just as easily turned the other way. Jensen kept the pace slow. "What are you thinking?" he asked. He didn't have much time for subtleties here, but House knew that, too.

House sighed. "This . . . this _thing_ . . . I actually think he's worse than my father."

"Different, definitely."

"Dad was always personal. He had a campaign against _me_. But Patrick . . . he really doesn't care at all, positive or negative. He's just _using_ them. They aren't even real to him."

Jensen nodded. "And that's terrifying, isn't it? Not just for their sake, but to think that something might be worse than your father."

House was silent for a moment. "I always felt alone," he continued after a pause. "Always _knew_ I was alone. How many others are there?" The weight of having so much company, even perhaps company worse off than he had been, was nearly crushing.

"Unfortunately, there are too many. But you aren't alone. Neither are they; there _are_ people in the world who care, always. Sometimes they haven't made connections yet, but they _are_ there. But you're right, it's a tragedy. The idea of such evil in the world almost seems to blot out the good at times."

House came to a stop, then turned around, starting the slow limp back toward the Volvo. "I never thought I'd think anything good about Dad. But at least he wasn't a predator. He only hated me."

"Hell is still hell, Dr. House. It isn't comparative. You can't analyze your hell and compare it in a spreadsheet to someone else's."

House shook his head. "But if Dad . . . if the people I've thought were bad aren't totally bad . . . Even her husband, being a cheating and lying jerk, actually helped out."

"With very few exceptions, people are not all bad or all good. The world isn't black and white, much as we wish it could be. But some _issues_ are black and white. What Patrick is doing is monstrous, and you are going after him, remember. You are helping not just yourself but all of the children he's known, and all the ones in the future. Sometimes, even in a gray world, there _is_ justice. There will be for Patrick."

"That doesn't fix things."

"No, it doesn't. But it _does_ make a difference. The world can't be fixed, Dr. House. But it can definitely be _helped._"

They were nearing the Volvo. House looked over at Jensen. "You really think there will be justice for Patrick?"

"Absolutely. Because he has no idea what he challenged in you. You are stronger than he is, and you are going to prove it. I have no doubt of the outcome."

House looked a bit stunned at the statement of confidence, then walked on to the car in silence.

(H/C)

Jensen's house was comfortably sprawling without being pretentious, a place you could relax, a place to come home to at the end of the day. Cathy bounded down the sidewalk almost as soon as the car stopped. "Dad!" She nearly tackled him, and Jensen gave her a fierce hug.

"Hi, Cathy. I missed you."

"I missed you, too." She gave him another squeeze, then moved on past to House, who had just succeeded in prying himself out of the car. The leg was stiffening up badly now.

Cathy wrapped him in a hug. "Hi, Dr. House! Good to see you."

House studied her eyes, looking for any judgment, any difference, any resentment at taking her father or disappointment that he had a crisis-level problem, whether defined or not, in the first place. There was none. She simply looked glad to see him. "Hi, Cathy."

Jensen had already advanced on up the sidewalk to greet Melissa in the doorway. "Come on in," he urged. Wilson was already halfway to the house. House limped up the sidewalk, his leg throbbing with each step. He was suddenly very glad of the chance at an extended break from the cramped quarters and subtle motion of the car. Cathy scampered on up the sidewalk ahead of him, and he watched her easy, innocent steps and felt a twinge deep inside. He would never again be able to run.

Melissa greeted him at the door, showing no more resentment than Cathy had and leaving House baffled. Simple concern, without resentment, without management, without motives, wasn't something he'd encountered much of in life. Even with a secure family now, he remained inclined to view the world in general with a bit of suspicion.

"It will be about 20 minutes until dinner," Melissa said. "You must have made good time from Syracuse." She didn't mention the rest stops, although Jensen had told her to figure them into her timing.

House grinned. "Wilson kept testing the speed limit on the drive back. Fortunately, the cops were all asleep or at the doughnut shop."

"Why don't we sit down while we wait?" Jensen suggested. House automatically gravitated to a recliner and stretched his leg out, flinching as the foot rest raised.

Cathy had drifted toward the piano in the living room. It was a simple upright, nothing remarkable but still potentially full of the same music, even if less rich, as more extravagant instruments. "Would you play something for me, Dr. House?"

House, having finally just gotten his throbbing leg adjusted, hesitated. He didn't want to let her down, but he also didn't want to move for the next 20 minutes, preferably longer. Jensen intervened. "Not right now, Cathy."

The flare of disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable. "But I was looking forward to it."

"Not right now," Jensen repeated, more firmly, and she accepted it and turned away toward a chair.

"I'll play you something after dinner, okay?" House offered.

She brightened up instantly. "Okay."

"Meanwhile, why don't you play us something? Your father said you had a piano recital tomorrow. We can be your dress rehearsal."

She looked from the piano to him uncertainly. "I'm not good," she stated with heartbreaking simplicity. "Not like you are."

"Cathy, believe it or not, I didn't start playing Rachmaninoff in the delivery room." She laughed, relaxing slightly. "Everybody starts somewhere. Come on, if I'm going to play for you later, you have to play something for me. Fair's fair."

Still somewhat reluctant, she walked over to the piano and slid onto the bench, then looked back uncertainly. "I'm really not good," she repeated.

"You're better than you think," her father stated. "Come on, Cathy. We'd like to hear you."

She turned back to face the keyboard, took a deep breath, and started in on her recital piece. It wasn't too difficult, of course, something appropriate for someone with only about a year of lessons, but nor was it terribly musical. It was correct, but even Wilson, comparing to House's playing, could hear the difference. Cathy's fingers were stiff, almost fearful, as if afraid the keys might bite back. The whole impression was laborious. Cathy finished and shook her head in frustration. "I can't GET it!" she snapped.

"It will get better as you keep up the lessons," Jensen encouraged.

House had been listening with head tilted slightly, his analytical expression momentarily overriding the lines of stress and pain on his face. "Cathy," he asked, "how have you been practicing?"

"Every day!" she replied, her tone rising in frustration. "I do it 30 minutes every day, just like the teacher says, but it just isn't WORKING. I just can't do this."

"Not how long, but _how_," House clarified. "_How _are you practicing?"

Cathy looked confused, as did Wilson. Jensen looked intrigued. "I, uh, get out the books and work through it."

"Practice something," House told her. "Something else; pick something you haven't worked up for recital, something new, and practice it for me."

Cathy was still puzzled, but she stood up long enough to open the piano bench and fish out one of her books. She flipped through the pages, selecting one, and started carefully. Two measures in, she missed a note, skidded to a halt, and returned to the beginning.

"Stop," House commanded. She stopped and twisted around halfway on the bench to face him. "Do you always stop and go back to the beginning whenever you miss a note?"

She nodded vigorously. "You have to get the notes right ahead of anything. Any time I miss something, I have to start over until I do it perfect 3 times. No matter how many times I have to do it over, every piece has to have all the notes exactly right 3 times before I can go on."

House shook his head. "Who told you that?"

"My piano teacher."

House sighed and looked over at Jensen. "Please, get the kid a new teacher. She must be one of those one-size-fits-all teachers as far as musical theory. Not that that approach might not work with some personalities, but it's never going to work with Cathy."

Cathy was still confused. "But you HAVE to get the notes right. You don't hit wrong notes when you play."

"Ever seen a dot to dot?" House asked.

"Of course."

"Suppose that you went through a dot to dot always worrying about the next number, making absolutely sure that you got it right, but the next number was _all_ you saw. You never looked at the whole picture." Cathy's head lifted suddenly, the light starting to dawn. "You know, half the fun of those things is trying to figure out what it can be. When I was a young kid, I'd look at it first and try to guess the image, and then I'd keep stopping while I did it to guess along the way. Sometimes I'd even do them in different order to make it another picture entirely. It's a whole lot more fun than fretting only about what number comes after number seven. And the connecting lines are what really bring the picture to life."

Cathy nodded uncertainly. "I like to guess the pictures, too."

"Music is like a _picture_, Cathy. It's a _whole_. And a whole is greater than the sum of the parts. I'm not saying the notes aren't important, but you've actually got yourself afraid of them. All you're thinking about, all the time, is not hitting a wrong note. You aren't thinking about the music. If you always fixate on each individual note and keep stopping and reduce it to a numbers game like insisting on 3 times perfect, you'll NEVER see the larger picture of a piece. And that's frustrating as hell, because you know there is a larger picture there. That's why you're getting impatient with the process, because you know you're missing out on the bigger part of it." He looked over at Jensen. "How did you find this teacher?"

"Through a friend of Melissa's who gets lessons for her child. She said she was good."

"Is her child like Cathy? Personality wise."

Jensen shook his head. "Not even close."

"That's the problem. You've got a teacher who only plays one system. It will work on some, and with the others, it will drive them utterly crazy." He turned back to Cathy. "Okay, Cathy, go back to your recital piece. Start playing, and no matter what, you are not going to stop. Doesn't matter if you miss a note or not, the important thing is to keep going to the end."

She turned back uncertainly and started playing again. "Now, listen to me," House ordered, speaking over the music. "Think about a river. Picture it in your mind. Water flowing along, around bends, over rocks. Feel the current of it." Almost instantly, the music smoothed out slightly, the too-careful notes connecting. Everybody in the room heard the difference, Cathy included. Her slumped shoulders came up slightly. "That's it. Keep thinking of the river. Music is like a river. Let yourself feel it." She continued, relaxing more the further she went. It still was awkward, beginner-level, and nothing like hearing House, but it was far better than her first run-through. She came to the end and stopped, staring at the keys, amazed.

"You know what, Cathy?" House asked. She turned to face him. "You didn't miss any of the notes. They were all still there."

She truly smiled for the first time since she had sat down at the piano in the first place. "That was _fun_. I thought I was just doing it wrong."

"You weren't; somebody else was." He looked back at Jensen. "_Please_ get her a different teacher. No wonder she's frustrated with it."

Jensen was watching House with open admiration. "I will," he promised. "Thank you."

"Yes, thank you," Melissa said, and they all jumped, not having realized she was standing in the doorway. "That was good, Cathy. I enjoyed it. Dinner's ready."

The dinner was excellent, and House appreciated the food as well as the side course of a complete round of meds that he took. They talked about families and life in general over the meal, not a word about the last weekend or anybody's problems, and he was grateful for the respite. Cathy was almost bubbling over with enthusiasm, suddenly looking forward to the recital tomorrow, and House watched her, wondering again what his daughters would be like at that age. He was feeling at least somewhat less stressed, even if not relaxed, when the group finally drifted away from the table. He sat down at the piano and ran a couple of scales on it, feeling out the instrument. Nothing spectacular but certainly adequate, and at least it was tuned. Having Cathy practice as she had been was bad enough; adding an untuned piano would have tipped the balance into cruel and unusual punishment.

Cathy had sat down in the closest chair to the piano, waiting expectantly, and House debated selection for a moment, then launched into a Mozart sonata. Wilson, listening, suddenly frowned slightly. House's playing was superb, as always, not just the notes but the dynamics, the interpretation nuances, the whole all there, the picture of the piece clearly visible. It was technically excellent. That was all.

Melissa was smiling at the end, Jensen looking thoughtful, and Wilson trying to identify the nebulous difference that he knew was there. But it was Cathy who spoke up. "That was really good," she said. "But it doesn't sound like _you_."

"Cathy!" Melissa reprimanded.

House sighed and looked away. "I'm sorry," he said, mentally adding Cathy to the list of people he'd let down.

"He's had a long day on the road, Cathy; he's tired," Jensen stated, trying to smooth over House's self-disappointment, although he himself wasn't convinced that was the reason.

Cathy shook her head. "You said I was afraid of the notes, afraid of making a mistake. What are you afraid of?"

"Cathy, that's enough," Jensen said sharply, and she backed away, retreating into silence.

House's irritation, both at himself and at Cathy, flared up. To have an 8-year-old with only a year of lessons giving him a critique on what had actually been a very good performance of Alla Turca was too much. Who the hell did she think she was, accusing him of fear? He wanted to make a laser-sharp statement of defense, slicing through her chutzpah, and refrained only out of respect for Jensen. Instead, he turned his frustrations onto the piano, almost savagely attacking the opening few notes of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The piece unspooled itself like a thread, growing into a tapestry, all the intricacy that he loved of Bach, and for the first time since Friday, he actually let himself _feel_, all the frustration of Patrick, all the fear of everyone knowing, all the flood of emotion he had been trying so hard to keep back. The tight order of Bach imposed on and bringing order to the storm of feeling and the maze of the weekend's events echoed through the room. House finished and sat there silently, his breathing slightly accelerated.

Wilson closed his mouth, which had fallen open. "Wow," Jensen stated.

House half shrugged without turning around to look at them. "It's better on the organ," he said, escaping into a technical discussion. "Piano limits it a bit."

Cathy had been almost stunned into silence during that performance, but now she spoke. "What piece was that?"

"Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Bach." House stood up, suddenly acutely uncomfortable, feeling as if he had just undressed in front of them. He needed to get out of this group before he totally fell apart in front of everybody. "We'd better be hitting the road, Wilson. Miles to go before we sleep."

"It is getting late," Jensen agreed. "Past bedtime for Cathy, actually." Cathy responded as any 8-year-old kid in the middle of something interesting would have, and Melissa cut her out of the group with all the skill and persistence of a sheep dog and herded her down the hall, leaving the three men alone. Jensen faced House. "Keep in touch with me," he said. "And be sure you get enough sleep, no matter what you have to do to get it. I'll see you Friday."

House nodded. "See you then." He limped on toward the door by himself, making his escape, and Jensen dropped his voice to speak to Wilson.

"And I'll see you Wednesday."

Wilson hesitated. "Could we possibly make a deal to just discuss Danny and things going on there and stay totally out of my relationship?"

"No," Jensen replied, amiable but unyielding. Wilson sighed. "And don't forget, Dr. Wilson. Do _not_ tell him about that phone call. Ever. No matter what."

"I won't," Wilson snapped, turning away and exiting the house. House was already clear out at the Volvo, carefully and stiffly folding himself into the passenger's seat, and Wilson walked briskly down the sidewalk to join him, suddenly wanting to escape Jensen almost as much as House had wanted to escape whatever he had been escaping. Wilson still wasn't quite sure what had happened with that second piano piece, but he knew that afterward, House had been ready to bolt from _something_.

Wilson got into the driver's seat and switched on the car. Looking up, he saw Jensen standing in the doorway, still watching then, unable to hide the concern. Apparently, Jensen still didn't quite trust his self-control. Annoyed, Wilson backed out of the driveway, accelerated just a bit too abruptly after shifting from reverse to drive, then smoothed it out as House flinched at the jerk and rubbed his leg.

The Volvo headed through the darkness back toward Princeton.


	37. Chapter 37

House leaned his head back against the headrest as the car left Middletown. He was suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. The day, the trip, the revelations about Patrick, Thirteen, the entire situation all wound together into its own toccata and fugue, still ending for the moment as his piano piece had in a minor key. His leg was adding its voice; while it had appreciated the respite at Jensen's, it had obviously decided that meant the travel should be over entirely for the day, and it kicked into surround-sound performance like a full band, heavy on the percussion, almost as soon as he had gotten back in the car. He thought longingly of Cuddy and the hot tub, two hours ahead. He was too drained to even think beyond at the moment to the fax from his mother, the inside informant, or other aspects of her day he needed to know; he simply wanted _her_ right now. And the hot tub. Her in the hot tub. Yes, that sounded like the best of both worlds.

Wilson, of course, shifted into encouraging mode, trying to be supportive but typically doing so in a way that wasn't quite the best approach for the moment. "Just think, House, if Lucas can prove a whole string of women with small children, Patrick has had it. We can take his report to Ann Bellinger, and the case will be dropped. She'll probably even kill him herself and save CPS the trouble. With Lucas making this a priority investigation, I'll bet everything will be cleared up by Thanksgiving."

House sighed. He was too spent to talk about logistics or the future right now. Besides, even with the case dropped, there were two massive issues that would remain standing. Thirteen had killed herself, and everybody knew. There wasn't enough evidence in the world to change those two facts; he would simply have to learn to deal with them, and right now, he was too tired for it. He diverted, trying to distract Wilson into light conversation instead of a pep talk about Patrick's downfall. "Speaking of Thanksgiving, Cuddy and I want to invite you and Sandra to our place. Several other people there, time with the girls. You like things like that, and it will be good for you. Half her family is coming to meet Abby."

Wilson's hands tightened on the wheel, and the car swerved slightly. He straightened it and forced himself to ease up, one finger at a time, as his thoughts returned with a jolt to his own situation rather than House's. "Why? You never give an invitation without an ulterior motive, and you said yourself, it would be good for me. Why?"

House looked over at his friend. Wilson's face was set and his eyes glittering in the dim light that washed into the Volvo from other headlights. He actually looked mad. What the hell? "You . . . you like things like that, like I said. Family, lots of people around."

"Lots of people, right. Why don't you just say what you're thinking, House? You don't think Sandra and I could have our own meal alone, do you?"

"Wilson, you've said she hated cooking. You were going to go to a restaurant anyway. What's the big deal? It's an invitation; take it or leave it."

Wilson was getting more angry by the moment, all of his own pent-up tension from the day suddenly bursting through control like a dam. "It's an invitation that you _only_ decided to make after you knew I accidentally slipped the other night."

House shook his head, feeling his own annoyance rise even through the exhaustion. "Accidentally _slipped_? You make it sound like you stepped on a banana peel on the sidewalk. And for your information, Cuddy and I decided to ask you . . ."

"Cuddy? You told _Cuddy_? Yeah, I'll bet the two of you talked over all my faults and dissected my past history, and then you decided I'm such a relationship screw-up that I couldn't even handle taking my own girlfriend out to dinner successfully, so you had to step in and save the day. And at the same time, of course, show off your nice family now that you've finally got one, even if it took you long enough. Boy, that's House if I've ever seen it. You and Cuddy say you're doing this for my sake, but what you really want is to rub my nose in it. It's all about you. You've got a great family, and I've got three alimonies and a girlfriend I really care about but cheated on last Friday night because I was depressed over Danny and got drunk! Where were you Friday, anyway?" Wilson abruptly snapped his teeth together so fiercely that there was an audible click.

House looked away, staring out the window. "I was dealing with a lawsuit and Thirteen's suicide," he said quietly. He was too exhausted to even start to pick through the false assumptions in Wilson's tirade, but the implication that he should have known something was specifically wrong with Wilson - how, by telepathy? - on Friday night was too much. Friday night had been hell on wheels. He was realizing more and more just how nonfunctional he had been. If it hadn't been for Jensen . . .

Wilson was staring at his hands on the wheel, appalled at how close he had just come to flushing his own sessions with Jensen down the toilet. "House, I didn't mean . . . I know you had your hands full Friday."

House fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the Vicodin, taking a few - Wilson wasn't sure if it was two or three on a quick glance in the dark. House wasn't due for any more Vicodin yet; he'd had some at Jensen's. But this once, Wilson refrained from pointing out that his friend obviously was using it for emotional escape. Wilson suddenly didn't trust his own control on this drive, and a numbed-out and thus less-observant and less-annoying House sounded like a good idea. Maybe his friend would leave the subject of his error Friday night alone with a little narcotic assistance.

"It was two," House snapped. "Don't strain your eyes trying to count them in the dark."

"I wasn't . . ."

"Boy, you really are in denial about everything, aren't you? Hope nobody mentions the color of your car or who's President or who won this year's World Series while we're at a gas station." House closed his eyes, leaning his head back more. "Screw you. It was just an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner; come or don't. Makes no difference to me." He let himself drift, trying to stay away from the thoughts of Patrick, Thirteen, and the rest of the world at the moment, and thought of the hot tub, the jets swirling against his sore muscles, and even better, Cuddy's hands. The exhaustion was sweeping over him in waves, and if he fell asleep, he wouldn't have long enough to get close to two hours and start having nightmares. Slowly, his breathing leveled out.

Wilson was still annoyed that House thought it was necessary to referee his own relationship, as if they were incapable of managing a special dinner without his assistance, but the oncologist stayed quiet. He was afraid if he said much more tonight, he'd regret it. Just give it a few minutes; let the Vicodin do their work.

The Volvo hurtled on through the darkness. About 15 minutes later, House's cell phone rang, and Wilson, glancing over, was surprised to realize that his friend had fallen asleep. House shifted at the noise but didn't immediately wake up, and Wilson quickly took his right hand off the wheel and extracted House's cell phone with all the stealth and speed of a pickpocket. Let House sleep; he at least was less likely to judge Wilson's recent errors that way. Wilson hit the button on the phone. "Hello?" he said, very softly.

"Wilson?" Cuddy, with alarm immediately rising. "Is he all right?"

Wilson looked over again at House. Still asleep, and even at rest, there was a slight grimace on his face, and one hand rested on his thigh. Maybe those extra Vicodin hadn't been entirely for emotional reasons after all. Wilson himself was a bit stiff and car sore at this point. "He's okay," he whispered. "He fell asleep. Do you want me to wake him up?"

"No, leave him alone. I know he must be tired and hurting by now. I just wondered how close you were to Princeton."

Wilson checked the car clock, then obsessively looked at his watch with glowing hands to synchronize the two. "We've got about another hour and a half, counting a stop halfway. We were a little late leaving Jensen's."

"Was anything wrong?"

"No, Jensen's daughter just wanted House to play the piano for her. He played a few pieces."

"Good. Music helps him." She sighed. "Okay, I won't start filling the hot tub yet."

Wilson gave a bittersweet smile. "I wish Sandra and I had one. I think I could use a soak myself. Too much time on the road today."

"By the way, speaking of you and Sandra, did Greg mention anything lately?" Cuddy hadn't yet had a chance to ask House if he still wanted to do Thanksgiving; she was simply wondering if the topic had come up with Wilson during the hours of driving today. They had to have talked about something, after all. Surely all of the road conversation hadn't been about Patrick.

Wilson's temper, which had been dying down to embers, flared up with new flame. He kept his voice at a whisper, but the intensity cut through. "You don't have to beat around the bush. I know all about the plan the two of you came up with, and I think actually I might be capable of taking my girlfriend out to dinner on my own without screwing up, even if I did slip the other night. So keep your noses out of my love life."

Cuddy was silent for a few seconds. "What on earth are you talking about? And what do you mean, you slipped the other night? You mean you cheated? On _Sandra_?"

It was Wilson's turn to be baffled. "You didn't know that already?"

"No. He hasn't said a word. Why would you . . ."

"I was _drunk_, okay?" His voice rose slightly in spite of himself, and House shifted and then fell back into exhaustion and narcotic-enhanced rest. Wilson immediately dropped back to a whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened. Friday night I was feeling down, and I went to the bar, and one thing just led to another."

Cuddy sighed. "I'm not even touching that bucket of bullshit. But you said Greg had talked to you about coming to dinner - Thanksgiving, right? If you think that was a comment on the state of things between you and Sandra, you are dead wrong. You didn't actually tell him you thought that, did you?"

Wilson was getting more confused now, as well as wary. She sounded like she was loading her arsenal. He wondered if he could fake cell phone interference. On the other hand, if he did, purely accidentally of course, get disconnected, she would no doubt call back. Turn off the phone, and both Cuddy and House would have him for dinner in a completely different sense. He was trapped. Damn. "Um, I . . . might have. Don't think I used exactly those words."

She blew up. "Listen up, you jackass."

Her voice was loud enough that Wilson held the phone away from his ear. House stirred, and he quickly pulled it back close. "Keep it down. You're disturbing him."

She dropped in volume but gained in intensity. "Wilson, he asked me about inviting you to Thanksgiving last Friday morning. It was before everything started happening that afternoon. We haven't even discussed it since. So unless you think he has precognition, he was _not_ motivated Friday morning by your inability to keep your pants zipped on Friday night."

Wilson felt a deep chill starting through him. But if House hadn't been thinking of him and Sandra being in an awkward phase, then why would he invite them to Thanksgiving? _His _idea, clearly, even if Wilson had been mistaken on the timing. Not Cuddy's idea. "Why did he want to invite me then?" he asked.

"He knew you were down about your brother. He thought it might cheer you up, being around people and the girls." Wilson closed his eyes momentarily, then quickly reopened them, focusing on the road. House _had_ realized he was in a vulnerable spot? He had been trying to help before Wilson's big mistake?

Cuddy's voice was lower volume now, but it shot from the phone into his ear like an arrow. "Wilson, so help me, if you give him a hard time about _anything_ right now, you won't have to worry about being fired, because I'll kill you first."

Wilson gulped. "We . . . it was just a minor disagreement. Just a few minutes, really not much at all. Just a misunderstanding. He didn't seem too upset, just told me to come or not, no difference to him. I'll apologize to him, okay?"

"I'll ask him and draw my own conclusions. And no matter what he says, your clinic hours are doubled for this week. They only go up from there. You are _not_ going to upset him right now. I don't care _what_ you think he's talking about or whether you think he's right; you sit there and take it. Is that understood?"

Wilson could feel his age regressing rapidly, the clock of time running backwards. Any moment now, he would be a child again standing in front of his mother as she lectured him, hands on hips, eyes flashing. "Yes, maam," he replied meekly. He looked at the dashboard clock again. "We should be at your place around 11:30," he said, trying to change the subject.

She wasn't quite ready to. "You're in the middle of all this, Wilson, because he wants you there, and he needs you as a friend. But if you turn into a liability, you're leaving through the back door with a toe tag. Is that clear?"

"Crystal. I apologize. It really wasn't much of an argument; he's okay."

"I'll ask him myself later."

"I, um, need to go. Traffic is starting to get kind of heavy."

She wasn't buying it. "You be careful with him, Wilson. You're already working on your second chance; we gave you a pass once."

"I know. I apologize. I _really_ need to hang up now."

"All right, but don't forget."

"No danger. Bye." Wilson hit off and let out a deep breath. Geez, first Jensen, now Cuddy, and Cuddy was the scarier of the two. Jensen only threatened to fire him. He looked over at House. "Don't ever get her mad," he advised softly.

His eyes returned to the road, but his thoughts were spinning. He had totally misjudged a situation - again. At least he hadn't made it up to serious damage this time. He sighed. A year and a half of therapy was helping, but even there, House seemed ahead of him. Okay, he had his brother to deal with, which had distracted therapy extremely from the original reasons he went. Still, House had his father to deal with. He wasn't getting the smoothly paved yellow brick road to psychiatric health either. Wilson looked over again at House. "I apologize," he said, very softly, not wanting to wake him up. "I was wrong. Should have given you a chance to explain instead of jumping to conclusions; you _did _try to set me straight at first." His eyes returned to the road, but the more he thought about it, the more remorse traveled in a double harness with the partner being almost jealousy.

How could House inspire such loyalty in those around him? And the man was totally unaware of the depth of it.

How could Wilson _not_ inspire such loyalty? Everybody liked him, but that was all. Even past lovers had been wonderful lovers - and that was all.

Wilson longed for a woman just once to speak up for him as Cuddy had for House, to come firmly to his defense, to take on the world on his behalf. Picturing any of his ex-wives in that role was laughable. Amber. Now _she_ had had some fire, but still, Amber had just loved a good fight. The fight itself was part of the fun for her - and it had been fun for her. The times she had stood up to House over Wilson had been not entirely for Wilson but also partly for herself. Never had she stood up ferociously for him with her sole motivation being his welfare. Sandra . . . Sandra was nice, hot to look at, talented both in and out of bed. Not a street fighter like Amber, but not a pushover. Still, Wilson sensed a reserve in her. It was almost like she was afraid to totally let go of doubts. Wilson wondered why not one partner in his life had ever been able to give the kind of fierce, total commitment to the relationship and concern for the other person that he had just seen demonstrated in Cuddy. Always, _always_ there had been Wilson plus something else in top billing. Never had it been Wilson alone. With all of House's problems he was facing right now, Wilson suddenly found himself wishing he were in the other man's shoes. House had complete, unwavering, unquestioned, red-hot commitment from his wife. Wilson never had.

With another sigh, he glanced at the clock again, then flipped on his blinker, taking the next exit. He pulled into a gas station at the top of the ramp, then reached over to shake his friend. "House. House!" House stirred and slowly opened his eyes, looking around him in slight disorientation. "We're at a gas station. Time to stretch out for a minute, and the car needs gas anyway." House didn't reply verbally, simply nodded, then reached for the car door. "By the way," Wilson added, and House looked back over at him. "I apologize. I was reading the situation wrong. Sandra and I would be glad to come for Thanksgiving dinner." Leaving his friend to slowly pry himself out, Wilson quickly exited the Volvo and started unscrewing the gas cap.


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: Wilson's thoughts at the end of last chapter are Wilson's thoughts, not necessarily mine, not intended as a final statement of "reality" regarding Wilson and relationships. Just his thoughts, and in fact intentionally not-quite-straight thoughts, as he's not at his best and clearest at the moment after a long, tense day after a long, tense weekend. So peace out, Wilson defenders. I got several PMs on him; believe me, if I had had any doubt that he can also inspire loyalty, which I didn't, I wouldn't anymore. :) This was not the final word on that and does not coincide 100% with my own opinion of his relationships. The story isn't over yet. There's an extended Wilson session with Jensen coming up later that digs much further into things from ex's through Amber and on to Sandra - and Jensen hasn't forgotten about Wilson and his problems, either, as he made clear in bringing up and refusing to censor Wilson's upcoming session when Wilson was leaving his place. And yes, you will eventually meet Sandra. House will always be the center of story attention and never wander far out of sight, but Wilson's subplot in this one is not concluded. Neither is Foreman's and the Thirteen arc, and they aren't forgotten, either.

In short, the story isn't over. Be patient and don't take intermediate chapters as necessarily my final word regarding Wilson or anybody/anything else. Except Patrick. He's exactly who/what you think he is.

Enjoy 38.

(H/C)

The Volvo pulled into the driveway at 11:35, and Wilson put it in park but left the ignition running. He had no desire to encounter Cuddy right now. House had fallen asleep again after the leg-stretching break and hadn't woken up all the way from there to Princeton, but his sleep had been restless, not with nightmares but as if either his hyperactive mind or his leg refused to switch off. Watching him during the drive, seeing and hearing the continual soft volleys in the war between exhaustion and outside stressors, Wilson felt guilty again for his misassumptions earlier. House really had had a hell of a day today, following a hell of a weekend. Hopefully things could start to get back to some semblance of normal tomorrow when he returned to PPTH and left the main investigating to Lucas and the lawyer stonewalling to Cuddy. Of course, at least some employees knew about his past now, but Wilson really thought that House's fearsome reputation would prevent most from expressing sympathy to his face. There would undoubtedly be a few assholes who tried to taunt him with it, but House was more than capable of victory in a duel of words. It was sympathy he dreaded, not verbal attack.

Wilson leaned over quickly to shake House awake. The oncologist could already see Cuddy opening the front door; she must have been standing there waiting. Wilson wondered if Sandra was watching eagerly for him, and if she was, whether the fact would make him feel glad or guilty. "House. House! Come on, wake up. You're home." House's eyes opened, and he blinked at his surroundings, then zeroed in on Cuddy. He opened the door and was unable to suppress a hiss of pain as he maneuvered the leg out. Cuddy stopped halfway down the sidewalk, knowing better than to try to help him immediately unless he indicated, usually silently, that he wanted it.

House levered himself up out of the Volvo. "See you tomorrow," he tossed back over his shoulder toward Wilson as he finally achieved his feet.

"Good night, House. See you at work." House closed the door, and Wilson let him get a few steps away, then backed out as quickly as he could while still being surreptitious. Time to make his escape while Cuddy was locked in on House.

Cuddy held out her arms, and House limped stiffly straight into them, leaning against her. For a minute neither of them said anything, but then he straightened up, pulling away. "I'm the one who should be worried about giving the neighbors a show, not you," Cuddy teased.

"Let 'em watch. It's late enough for viewing for mature audiences anyway. But while I am glad to see you, could we continue this in the hot tub?"

She laughed and hooked her arm through his on the left, subtly adding support as they slowly continued to the door. His leg was obviously giving him hell. "With charming lines like that, how did you stay unclaimed for so long?" She was trying for a purely light tone, no touchy subjects tonight while he was so tired and hurting, but the underlying tension in her voice was still there. He heard it, too, and she wondered whether he would challenge it or ignore it.

He ignored it, at least for the moment, confirming to her just how drained he was. "Oh, I had to work at it. What about you?"

She grinned. "I had to work at it, too. We both should have given in years ago and saved ourselves a lot of trouble."

Once inside, they proceeded straight to the largest bathroom where the hot tub had been installed this spring. It was full, steaming, and ready, and House gave a sigh of relief as he slid into the welcoming water. He could almost picture the muscles in his leg releasing one by one. The jets swirled gently around him. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, letting most of his body slide down under the water. Cuddy smiled, content just to watch him and see those lines of pain smooth out, but after a minute, he opened his eyes again. "Why are you still out there?"

"I was just enjoying watching you."

"You can watch me from the tub." The water was delightful, but he missed her immediate presence next to him.

She dropped her clothes, for once leaving them on the floor (at least for the moment), and stepped into the tub, settling down beside him. "How did we ever get by without this thing?"

"Beats me." He had closed his eyes again, and she slid closer to him. "Who's the informant?" he asked after several minutes of silently soaking up the hot water.

"We can talk about it tomorrow, Greg. It's too late for a strategy conversation."

"That wasn't a conversation; it was one question. Who?"

"One answer, and that's it, okay?"

One blue eye clicked partway open to glare at her. "How can I promise that until I hear the answer? It may lead to other questions. You can't limit the number of steps a differential can take."

"No, _you_ can't. I can. One answer is all we're doing tonight, Greg; take it or leave it. I'm exhausted even if you aren't."

The subliminal hint worked. His other eye opened, and he studied her, suddenly concerned rather than rebellious, gauging her tiredness. Fortunately, Cuddy knew she looked like someone who had had a stressful day at work and then had been pacing the living room waiting for him for the last few hours since the girls went to sleep. "Okay," he agreed. "One answer."

"Andrews."

He sat up, rising partway out of the water. "Really? I wouldn't have thought he could be that devious. On the other hand, he definitely resented losing that case in the first place; he thinks I overstep my bounds around the hospital and make mountains out of molehills sometimes. Mailman is about his mental speed. And of course, Patrick saw his resentment. That means . . ." He trailed off as Cuddy pressed a finger against his lips.

"Enough, Greg. You have your one answer. That's it for today; we'll talk more about the case tomorrow." She also had to make sure Wilson had indeed apologized to him for the Thanksgiving misunderstanding, although he didn't seem any more upset at the moment, just worn out. And then there was the funeral, she thought with a sigh. Thirteen's funeral was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. Foreman had called Kutner with the information, and the ever-helpful Kutner had passed it on to the hospital grapevine. Foreman had not called Cuddy, although she had called his number back, getting no answer, and left a general message of administrative sympathy. Either he was still mad at House, and her by proxy, or he was afraid of consequences for Friday night and was putting off talking to her. She knew her chances of getting House to go to the funeral were slim, but she still thought that it might help him. He really needed another experience besides his father's to judge funerals on. On the other hand, was a coworker who had committed suicide over a case in which he was codefendant the best other funeral to attend first? But it might help closure to start, just the same. Still, it had to be purely his choice. There was no way after the fiasco of his father's death that she could force him to a funeral. She would tell him the time and place, preferably in the morning, and leave him a day and a half to chew over the matter in his own mind.

"No fair," House objected. "You can't ban me from further thinking about things while you're processing like a human laptop over there."

"Touche. All right, enough for both of us tonight. We're just going to sit here and think about nothing."

"You can't think about nothing, because nothing then becomes something. Nothing is a noun, you know; it does have meaning."

"Shut up, Greg." She rolled over, closing his mouth with hers.

He pulled away for air a minute later and smiled at her, a genuine smile that reached clear to his eyes. "'Shut up, Greg,'" he repeated. "With charming lines like that, how did _you_ stay unclaimed for so long?"

"It wasn't easy. Especially when my top doctor kept making me dream of doing things every time I saw him."

"Really? What kind of things?"

By unanimous vote, the conversation ended at that point. His leg was still stiff and sore, but the buoyancy of the hot water helped his mobility, and for the first time since before everything caved in on Friday, they enjoyed each other's bodies, and the pesky, intruding world closed its eyes and turned away.

(H/C)

House climbed into bed, still sore, still exhausted, but feeling better. He leaned back into the pillow and watched appreciatively as Cuddy, wearing only a smile, came across the room from their bathroom with a cup of water and a handful of pills. "The woman of my dreams, naked, and she even has Vicodin. What more could a man want?"

She handed him the pills - two Vicodin and the sleeping pill, full dose, although he wasn't up to joking about that one. He studied them for a moment, then gulped them down, chasing them with a few sips of water.

Cuddy switched on the monitor, turned off the lamp, and got in bed herself, sliding down next to him. "12:30," he said drowsily.

"Yes, it is, but I refuse to call it morning before I've slept at all."

"Don't do yoga tomorrow. Sleep in as long as you can with the girls."

"I plan on it. Besides, I just got my workout tonight, so I can skip it in the morning."

"Just leave me once Marina gets here, and I'll catch you at the hospital later," he mumbled. He could feel the drugs pulling him down. He knew he wasn't going to make it in to work by 8:00 tomorrow. No point in holding her back.

"No chance," she replied, tightening her arm around him. "We'll go in together tomorrow, whenever that is. I'll just be late."

"I'm corrupting you." His words were starting to run together slightly.

"By the way, Greg, Abby came up with a new word tonight. Home. Rachel was asking about you, and she picked it up."

She felt his head turn, looking toward her. "Home."

"Home." She pressed herself against his strong left shoulder. "One of the best words to know. Good night, Greg."

He didn't answer, and she lay there in the dark counting his breaths until she herself was carried off into rest.


	39. Chapter 39

"I can't believe you're just being late to work," House stated the next morning in the car as Cuddy drove toward PPTH.

"I can't believe you think I'd just get up, go on about my day, and leave you to walk into the hospital alone this morning," she countered. "Some mornings, family takes priority over work." She felt rather than saw the gleam in his eye as he dodged emotion by ducking into mischief. "And I said _some mornings_. This doesn't mean we can routinely forget about trying to be on time."

"Party pooper," he protested, but then he brightened up again. "They'll still say I'm corrupting you. For you to be late to work even once will be the shot heard round the hospital world."

"Let them talk," she replied, and he abruptly realized that a secondary motive on her part might well be giving them something else to talk about besides him.

"They'll still put it together," he stated flatly, the brief flare of fun vanished. "You're late because you were helping me deal with things, ergo I can't deal with things, because all of it was true." _Just a weakling._

Cuddy parked the car and turned to face him. "I'm late because we were both up late last night due to the girls being fussy, and we slept in this morning. My assistant was told that, and also told to pass it along to the front desk and anybody who asked, as well as all appointments."

He looked at her in startled admiration. "You _lied_ to the hospital?"

"What can I say? Maybe you _are_ corrupting me just a little."

He abruptly realized their surroundings. "This isn't the hospital." They were at the nearby park instead.

"Glad you noticed. Do you feel like a short strategy and sharing session first?"

"Good idea. We sure didn't have much chance to talk this morning." Marina had already been there and the girls already awake by the time House woke up, but the girls had insisted on some daddy time themselves after his absence Monday night, and every attempt he and Cuddy had made to retreat for privacy backfired. He had finally just given up and gotten ready for work.

Cuddy started gently, letting him take the lead. They certainly had things to discuss, but she didn't want to push. "You gave me a brief summary of Syracuse. Do you want to flesh that out? It's okay if you don't, Greg; I know the essentials." He considered and then launched into a thorough recap of the conversation with Lanah, and Cuddy's eyes were smoldering by the end. "I swear, Greg, if everything else fails, maybe we _can_ take out a contract down the road. This man needs to be stopped."

"If Lucas can prove a pattern - assuming that it is a pattern - that will go a long way. Once we get Ann Bellinger to drop the case, I'd turn over whatever Lucas got legally to CPS, and they can get out the bigger shovel and dig some more. Maybe some of the earlier kids are old enough now that they'd talk with a child psychologist." He shuddered suddenly. "They're probably still terrified, though. Like Christopher."

Cuddy slid across the front seat, putting her arm around him. "You think he never stayed too long with anybody?" Her hand traced slow circles on his opposite arm, the gentle reminder of her presence totally at odds with her matter-of-fact tone. She knew discussing facts was easier than talking about the storm of emotion.

He nodded. "I think . . ." He trailed off, shivering again, and Cuddy tightened her grip. "I think he enjoyed _breaking_ them. Especially given the same age on these two. I think that he'd get . . . _bored_ . . . after a while with it once he had them totally afraid. Break them, threaten them into silence, and leave, but always with the threat that he might come back if they forgot and talked. Christopher was still confused. That stage wears off. You stop being confused and you just . . . _know_ that's how it is. Like there's never been anything different." His voice trailed off, and he turned away, looking out the window. Cuddy simply held him silently, but she was fighting back tears of fury. That absolute bastard. Had he been there in the car at this moment, or had John, she would have killed either of them regardless of consequences. Nothing that inhuman deserved to survive. She suddenly felt gripped again with her own fear for her daughters, with people like this in the world. At least Rachel and Abby had nothing to fear inside their own house.

After a few minutes of silence, House turned back toward her. "So, what did you do yesterday?"

She accepted the change of focus. "Talked to the lawyer, like I said. That was fun, but you don't need to be talking to him. Talked to your team. I tracked down Andrews from the security tapes, but I haven't said anything to him, like Jensen recommended. He's the one we want to act most business as usual in front of, him and the lawyer. Oh, and the fax." She turned around to pick up her briefcase from the back seat. "Do you want to read her notes?"

He hesitated. "There's probably nothing in there I don't already know. I'll take your word on the triggers."

"There were a few things I didn't know. Or that I hadn't fully realized." Cuddy shook her head. "She really had no idea."

"I've told you she didn't. I _knew_ she didn't."

"I just had never believed how it would be possible not to get _some_ clue."

"You've never lived with Dad. You learned to accept his way of doing things, his rules, because it was easier. And I'm sure, especially knowing Oma, that accepting his total control was gradual for Mom. I read a book once that described trapping wild horses. The best way was to bring one post to the water hole. Leave it there for a week, then add a second post. Then keep adding posts, finally get down to adding boards one at a time. It becomes a fence so gradually that they don't realize, and by the end, they walk straight through the gate into the corral to get to water, and you slam the gate shut. That's what I think it was like for Mom. They were married a few years before me, you know. The fence was already there before he started on me. He was never violent with her, but he was absolutely in command. But if you'd heard Lanah yesterday . . . some people are weaker than others. Not bad, just weak. Hard to understand when you're strong like you are."

"And like you," she insisted. "You stood up to him once you could."

_Just a weakling._ He flinched. "I'm . . . strong," he said softly.

"Yes, Greg. You are. And you are proving it with Patrick."

He jumped subjects, fleeing to what he thought was less of an emotional minefield. "I asked Wilson and Sandra to Thanksgiving."

"I know."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You know?"

"I called your cell phone last night to get an ETA, and he answered, because you were asleep. He mentioned it."

He instantly put two and two together, the calculation lightning fast behind the blue eyes. "_That's _why he apologized."

"I was going to ask you and make sure he did. He can jump to a misconclusion faster than almost anybody I know."

"He's feeling guilty right now, so he's reading everything else in that light. Did he tell you about Sandra?"

"Yes. The point is, did he tell _Sandra_ about it? He's still in denial, isn't he?"

House nodded. "Still running out excuses. He'll get there, I think; he wants this relationship. But he's got to tell her and work it out."

"Not to mention learning to keep his pants zipped. If he wants this relationship, that's an excellent place to start," Cuddy pointed out sharply.

"Jensen knows, too, and he's not buying any excuses. I'm sure Jensen will dissect him thoroughly tomorrow at their session." House tilted his head suddenly. "What did you threaten Wilson with if he didn't apologize?"

Cuddy smiled. "Let's just say it was effective. Fortunately for him."

"No fair. You can't leave good blackmail material like that out. I might want to use it myself sometime."

Cuddy shook her head. "Believe me, you'd never threaten him with this. But I'm glad it worked. Hopefully he won't forget, either." She saw his eyes suddenly get lost in memory. "What are you thinking, Greg?"

"I just . . . I used to dream of somebody standing up for me." He looked away. "Nobody ever did."

Cuddy hugged him. "I wish it hadn't taken this long for it to come true. Rachel and Abby are going to know that, Greg. All the way, childhood on."

The distraction worked as he shifted mentally from the past to the future. "Right. We'll stand up for them, big things and little things. They'll know they have somebody on their side."

"So you still want to do Thanksgiving?" she asked. "I was going to let it be your choice."

He sighed. "Don't tempt me. It just seems like canceling that would be letting him win. But if your mother turns it into a pity-fest . . ."

"If my mother brings it up even _once_, she loses all rights to the grandchildren for life, and she knows it. She'll behave."

He grinned suddenly. "You are one mean bitch at threatening people, you know it? Makes me wonder again what you used against Wilson."

"Let's just say I made it clear to him that it was very much in the interests of his future health to think before he opened his mouth and jumped to conclusions."

The light was back in House's eyes. "I'd like to have heard that conversation."

"Use your imagination." She arrived with a thud at the last item on her checklist of things to communicate before work today. "By the way, Greg, Foreman called Kutner. Dr. Hadley's funeral is scheduled for 2:00 tomorrow afternoon."

The light in his eyes snuffed out instantly, and he turned away. She almost heard the heavy steel door slam across this conversation. "We need to get to work. We're late."

She gave him a final squeeze, then slid back behind the wheel, knowing that the chance for discussion was over. Anything she could say would just get his defiance up. Hopefully he'd think about it on his own, with his ever-active mind refusing to obey his wishes and change the subject.

They were silent as she drove the short distance to PPTH.


	40. Chapter 40

House had thought about PPTH extensively on his own over the last few days and had wound up creating a sort of mental whiteboard, diagnosis in each case and appropriate treatment. It ran something like:

PITY = Remind them as quickly as possible that I'm a misanthropic bastard so they're mad at me instead.

Team = Remind them as quickly as possible that I'm a misanthropic bastard who also has the ability to fire them.

Andrews/Lawyer = Nothing important going on here, nope.

Jackasses = Blackmail with their own secrets.

House especially liked the treatment on the last one. He claimed to be disinterested in the hospital employees in general, but he actually had a remarkable grasp, one which would have horrified the subjects, on the inner relationships and secrets around PPTH. He loved people watching, and he had years of data accumulation just waiting for an appropriate occasion to arise to be put to use. Yes, of all the potential assholes he could think of, he would be able to turn the tables pretty quickly.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the assholes he was worried about. It was PITY writ in capital letters and dominating his mental whiteboard.

So he had laid his plans carefully, working out the correct response to each situation logically, and all of this went immediately out the window as he walked through the doors into the lobby of PPTH. He suddenly wasn't thinking of his plans at all. Instead, every single glance, every conversation, every detail suddenly had him at its center. The walls almost seemed to expand, making the large room even larger.

Cuddy felt him tense up with a jolt the minute they entered and actually heard his breath catch. She risked one quick reach over, touching his back unobtrusively while they were still barely inside the doors so that anybody in fact watching wouldn't yet have a full view. "Greg," she whispered. He looked down at her as if startled that she was there. "Breathe," she advised. He realized that he actually was holding his breath and let it out in a whoosh. "It's okay," she continued, wishing that it was anything close to it. "I'm here."

For just a fraction of a second, he leaned back into the touch of her hand, and then he limped forward again. "Right. All fine." Remember what Jensen had said. He was in control here. People would take their cue from him as to how much it mattered, and things would return to normal surprisingly quickly.

Yeah, right. Easy for Jensen to say.

Cuddy stayed right next to him as they approached the main desk. "Good morning, Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House," the receptionist said brightly.

"Good morning," Cuddy replied. House was busy trying to remember how many mornings she usually greeted him and if this was a change in her typical tone. He had to get her categorized to know how to react.

She took his stony silence as a reaction in itself and rolled her eyes slightly as she reached for the messages. Well, good, he thought. Yes, that was right, he usually just ignored cheery greetings. Okay, easy enough. Remind them all how little he cared. She extended a handful of messages to each of them. "Are the girls feeling better? Your secretary said they were fussy last night."

"Yes, they're much better this morning," Cuddy replied, smooth, even, in control. "Abby's cutting a tooth, and of course, you can't have just one of them stay up when they share a room." Abby actually was cutting a tooth, but Abby's version of fussy never went very far. Rachel was the more fiery of the two, although Cuddy couldn't help feeling sometimes as she looked into Abby's eyes that there was quite a temper in there that just hadn't encountered a worthy occasion to come out yet.

"Well, I hope they get to feeling better."

"Thank you," Cuddy replied. "Come into my office for a minute, House, before you go upstairs. I want to show you something."

Together they crossed the rest of the endless lobby, going through the doors at the end, heading for her office. Her secretary added her own stack of messages, and then they were inside Cuddy's inner suite. Blessed retreat. Cuddy firmly closed the door behind them, and House relaxed a fraction. "What did you want to show me?" he asked.

"I just thought I should look through your messages first, if you don't mind." He sighed and extended them, and she flipped through them quickly, extracted one, and ran it through the shredder, returning the rest. "From the lawyer," she replied to his silent question.

"They were all watching," he worried, pacing a small limping circle in her office.

"They weren't _all_ watching," she reminded him. "But for those who were, you handled that just right. And you'll never have to walk into the hospital the first time after those papers again. It'll get easier." She embraced him. "It's all going to be okay, Greg. Nobody's going to judge you for it. And some of them still won't know at all."

He leaned against her for a moment, then pulled away. "I'd better head upstairs. This will get to looking too much like a break in routine."

"Right. Business as usual today. But Greg, if you need me, just call. Doesn't matter where I am. I'm here for you."

"Thanks," he replied. He took a shaky breath, then started for the office door. "The start of any old, routine day. See you later."

Cuddy watched him leave, his shoulders a study in brave pain, and she once again thought of things she'd like to do to Patrick. House looked back, a glance of almost panic, and she gave him a reassuring smile. He turned away and walked on, and she pulled out Blythe's notes from her briefcase, locked them in the desk for the moment, then with a sigh started her own illusion of a routine day.

(H/C)

House exited Cuddy's office and immediately felt her absence. He was unable to resist a quick glance back, feeling like he'd been thrown off a ship without a life jacket, the waves choppy around him. She was still there, smiling at him, and he drew courage from her support, then steeled his resolve and moved on. He was still aware of every conversation as he headed for the elevator, but he tried to look like he didn't care about any of it. He stabbed at the elevator button with his cane and stood there, wishing it would hurry up and let him out of this public forum. The sharpening glance bored into his shoulders like a knife, and he turned to find a nurse studying him with unmistakable interest. "Don't you have a job to do?" he snapped. "Or is it just that you don't know how to do it?"

Sympathy evaporated like morning fog under a hot sun, and she scowled at him before turning away. He was smiling to himself as he resumed his elevator wait. The door opened, and he entered the car, followed by a couple whom he didn't recognize, probably a patient's family. The man studied him assessingly. "What the hell are you looking at?" House snapped.

"Gravedigger." A finger indicated his ball cap, which House suddenly remembered he was wearing today, an unconscious grasp at an object of comfort as he was getting ready for work. "Have you seen him?"

House relaxed instantly. "Oh, yeah. He was in Phily two months ago at that big rally."

"I know. I saved up for 3 months to get that ticket. Did you see where he . . ."

The man's wife rolled her eyes. "Bob, I'm sure the man has more important things to talk about. This is a hospital, not a sports bar."

House immediately put on an expression of shock. "There are more important things than Gravedigger?"

The man laughed. "She hasn't been converted yet. She still leaves the room when I have the TIVO on."

"Keep preaching that gospel, brother. Maybe someday she'll see the light." The elevator door dingerd open at the 4th floor, and House gave his traveling companion a quick nod as he stepped off, suddenly feeling more relaxed.

His relaxation melted as he opened the door to the conference room. Kutner and Taub sat there. Half his team, a team that would never be whole again, not in former composition, at least. Would anything _ever_ be whole again?

The two fellows studied him, both weighing him in the balance. No question here, of course. He knew for a fact that both of them had seen the papers. Kutner looked sympathetic, while Taub looked calculating, probably wondering about the security of his job now that his boss was acknowledged to be damaged goods. House clamped his teeth together and limped in, throwing his backpack a little too hard toward the chair in his office. It bounced off and landed in the floor, and Kutner jumped up like a Labrador Retriever to go fix the problem. "Leave it," House snapped. "Do we have a case?"

Kutner slowly returned to his seat. "Um, no."

"Well," House said pointedly as he headed for the coffee pot, "why don't we? More to the point, why are you sitting around doing nothing instead of finding one?"

"We've got the ER logs from last night," Taub said, reaching for them.

"Which were unopened in the middle of the table. You weren't even trying to find a case." House glared at them. "With the team down at the moment, you have to pull your own weight, or I might just have more than one vacancy to fill."

Taub quickly took the hint and switched to business as usual, although Kutner looked understanding more than resentful. Damn it. Have to push harder. Kutner was entirely too slow to get pissed off. House abruptly dropped that thought for the moment as another came to mind. "Wait a minute. Who brought the ER log? It was in the smack middle of the table. You never put it in the middle of the table, either one of you, and you hadn't been looking through it yet. It was still where it landed. Who?"

Kutner resolutely approached the lion's den. "Dr. Cameron brought it up from ER herself this morning."

Cameron. Damn. Cameron had matured quite a bit from her starstruck crush of years ago during the early days of her own fellowship, but she couldn't be expected to miss an opportunity like this to spread caring. Only House's lateness this morning and her job in ER had prevented her catching him, but he knew she'd try again. "So instead of digging into it, you all sat around talking about things that _were not_ work," he accused. "On work hours, which obviously aren't enough to keep you busy. Your clinic hours are each doubled - Kutner can take Thirteen's and Taub Foreman's, or vice versa. I don't care. From now until it's a full team again, you're both on double shifts. Unless, of course, you find a case, which it would be very much in your best interests to find as quickly as possible."

Taub already had the ER log in hand, and Kutner shifted closer to read it over his elbow, both of them the picture of industry. House sipped his coffee. "Nothing you'd be interested in," Taub concluded after a few minutes.

"Then go find something that I would be interested in," House suggested coldly.

They disappeared promptly, looking suitably occupied with thoughts of work now, not of their boss's past. House sighed and set down the coffee on the table. His mind, free of keeping up a front for the moment, immediately returned to the topic of the funeral, and he shook his head and pulled the ER log over for his own survey, just in case they had missed something. Nope. MVAs, fights, 3:00 a.m. emergency sniffles, broken bones, overworried mothers, and one appendicitis. Boring, boring, and boring. He looked around quickly for something else, now trying to distract himself, not the team.

Saved by the cell phone. He fished it out, checked it, then sighed. It was Blythe. He debated whether to accept this distraction through three rings but finally picked up, standing up as he answered and walking into his office.

"Greg? I apologize for calling you at work, but my psychiatrist just called, and he wanted an answer on my idea. I haven't heard back from Lisa or you yet, so I just thought . . ."

House frowned. "What idea?" He dropped into his desk chair and picked up his thinking ball, tossing it lightly with his non-phone hand.

"Didn't Lisa tell you?"

"Tell me what? You had an idea?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear it himself. Maybe Cuddy had already assessed it and discarded it as unusable, although it was odd that she hadn't mentioned that. "She hasn't said anything to me."

"She did get that fax, right?"

"Yes, Mom, she got the fax. She just said it was the therapy notes. She offered to let me read them this morning, but I didn't take the time."

"No, Greg, on the cover sheet, I said I had an idea I thought might help." House closed his eyes. "My psychiatrist agrees it's a good one, but I didn't want to just jump in without your permission, because it might lead to another court case down the road if it works, so I asked Lisa to call me."

House thought back quickly. There hadn't been a cover sheet with the bunch of papers; he'd noted the top page at a glance in the car this morning. It went straight to therapy notes. "She didn't mention it, Mom. Maybe she thought it wouldn't work after she thought about it."

Blythe was sounding frustrated now. "But she doesn't _know_ what it is, Greg. I didn't explain it. Just asked her to call. I thought she'd either call or pass it on to you."

House straightened up. "You didn't go into details?"

"How many details can you go into on a fax cover sheet? No, it just said I had an idea but needed your permission, so please call. I really am trying to respect your privacy, Greg."

House was staring at his thinking ball. Cuddy discarding an idea of his mother's as useless after hearing it didn't bother him, but Cuddy totally failing to mention this to him after she had made that initial decision did. They had talked about the therapy notes; it couldn't have been that the topic of the fax slipped her mind. The fax cover sheet was completely absent. Okay, she was censoring his phone messages, too, but she'd at least told him that and why, had given him some vote and control. To make a decision for him without even telling him she'd made it, and then to deliberately hide that decision by removing the cover sheet and to persist in not telling him, _that_ bothered him. She had deliberately offered him what was apparently an incomplete version of the fax this morning, passing it off as a complete one. Probably the idea was useless anyway, but he should have at least been told at some point. It was the deception that hurt, suddenly reminding him of past occasions when she and Wilson had taken it upon themselves to manage his life.

"Greg? Are you still there?"

He blinked and focused. "Yes, I'm here."

"Anyway, my psychiatrist agreed this was a really good idea, but I don't want to just do it without your permission."

His thoughts were still on Cuddy. "What was the idea, Mom?" he asked, resigned. He had no more confidence than she had, but she shouldn't have completely removed that sheet and tried to totally hide the fact from him.

"Well, dear, I was just thinking about my last travel club meeting. There's this nice man who was sitting next to me, and we got to talking, and . . ."

"Mom, this relates to the current problem, right?"

"Yes, Greg. Anyway, I was talking to this man, because he was new. He's just retired, settling down now and wants to travel with his wife since they have time. He was telling me about his family, and then started talking about work, and . . ."

"WHAT is the idea?" House's patience had been nearly nonexistent today even before her revelation of the censored fax had rattled him further.

"I'm trying to get there, Greg. I apologize. Anyway, it turns out this man had been a PI before he retired. That was interesting, so we were talking about it, and one thing he said that I just remembered this weekend, he said that PIs in Kentucky have to be fingerprinted to get a license."

House sighed. "You're thinking of fingerprinting the psychiatrist's office? Anybody knows to wear gloves when picking locks."

"Not the office, Greg. The notes. Have you ever tried to remove the contents of a file, sort through a stack of paperwork, and copy it all with gloves on? I have, because the furnace was out one day last December at the senior center when I was doing some volunteer work, and I wound up taking the gloves off. I think those machines even know what you're trying sometimes and just decide to get difficult to spite you."

House sat up suddenly, his mind snapping into gear. "The notes, page by page . . . you might actually have a point there, especially if your psychiatrist doesn't have an automatic feed copier that takes a whole stack of papers in the top. If the copier acted up, I could see him taking off his gloves partway." He remembered his own note theft from Stacy's therapist's office. No way could he have copied that batch wearing gloves, even light ones. Blythe had a point on mechanical obstinacy, too. "And the notes wouldn't have been handled by many people. Should be a pretty clean field for prints."

"That's why my psychiatrist thought it was worth trying. He's the only one who should have had his hands on them, him and maybe his secretary. If this man who is after you hired a PI in Kentucky, his fingerprints would be on file. If we can file a police report and fingerprint the office and those notes, it might lead straight to him, and he'd give up the man who hired him to cut a deal for himself."

House was thoughtful now. "Patrick might not have hired a licensed PI. He might have, though. There are shady ones in every profession, just like lawyers, and they still license amoral jerks in that field. If we could get hard evidence on breaking and entering and theft of confidential medical records, that's a felony, and hiring somebody to do it is definitely a felony."

"That's what my psychiatrist said. He wanted to report it to the police right away, but I told him to wait until I got your permission. It means the police will have to look at my notes, too, so that would be more people who knew."

House closed his eyes, weighing this equation. Bringing more people into knowledge, whether it worked or not. On the other hand, if it worked, this was a guaranteed felony conviction for Patrick. No doubt he'd used the interstate phone system at some point in hiring the man, too, which added wire fraud, a far more serious charge than most people thought. Soliciting crimes by either phone or mail across state lines was a charge with teeth in it. Guaranteed jail time and a significant fine with all put together. Fingerprints were irrefutable. There was NO innocent explanation for the fingerprints of a PI being on his mother's therapy notes, and the man surely would roll over on Patrick to help save his own neck. But the exposure would have to come first, before the potential success of the result was known. Still, the police in Kentucky were a far-removed bunch from the staff of PPTH. Would it make that much difference what the police in Kentucky knew about his problems? They surely saw plenty of other people's every day. He would be just another case to them. "Greg?"

He opened his eyes. "Okay. Do it. And tell your psychiatrist whether this works or not that he needs to upgrade his security system."

"He's already planning on it. He was horrified that this probably came from his office." She paused. "I am, too, Greg. I . . . apologize. For everything."

House instantly ducked away from emotions. "There's nothing you can do to change it now. Just . . . be more careful from here on."

"I will. Can I still see you and the grandkids?"

Oh, yes, the old threat about revelation. "That was if you revealed something deliberately. I . . . I'm not going to shut you off right now, but you've got to start being more aware of things. Dad wasn't the only one out there. If anything like this ever happens again . . . that's it. There's a limit, for the girls' sake as much as mine."

"I promise, Greg, I'm really trying to work through things."

This conversation had gone on past his emotional reserves already. "I need to go, Mom. I'm at work. That really is a good idea, though; let me know what happens."

"Okay, Greg. I will. I love you. Bye."

"Bye." He hung up and leaned back in the chair, tossing his ball. Up, down. Up, down. His thoughts were tossing right along with it.

This rocked him. Not that Cuddy had dismissed the idea unheard - or even heard - but that she had deliberately concealed that there ever had been an idea. They would have been together two years in February, and she had many times apologized for managing his life and taking decisions out of his hands in the past - yet she had done it again. Probably with good intentions, but still, she had done it again.

The funeral. He knew she wanted him to go to the funeral, even though he also knew she was aware that he had no intentions of it. She had mentioned the funeral again this morning, even after his previous refusal to go. He still remembered her coming into his office, expressing sympathy for his father, pulling out the syringe with such smooth deception that he had never had a quiver of suspicion, not until he felt the drug taking hold after she had left. Surely she wouldn't do it again. Would she?

He shook his head, picked up the phone, and then returned it to his pocket undialed. He couldn't call and ask her that. By the way, are you planning to force me to another funeral? No, she couldn't do that. Not after his father's. He had to trust Cuddy. She was his lifeline in all this.

But still, that concealed cover sheet on the fax planted the smallest seed of doubt in his mind about tomorrow's funeral. She thought this would be good for him. She had thought that before, too, and just like this time, she had been dead wrong.

With a sigh, he looked up a number on the computer, then picked up his phone and dialed.

"Hawkins Windows, may I help you?"

"This is Greg House. You measured a window at my house yesterday morning for a replacement."

"Oh, yes, Dr. House. I have the order here; that should be in from our warehouse either tomorrow or Thursday at the latest."

"There's an extra $1000 for you if you can have it tomorrow afternoon and make an install appointment at 2:00 p.m."

The line was silent for a moment. "An extra $1000?"

"Yes."

He heard the pages flipping. "I'm sure that can be managed somehow. I'll call our warehouse right now, soon as I hang up. Yes, I'm sure that will work. Not a problem at all."

"I'll meet you at the house tomorrow at 2:00."

"We will definitely be there. Thank you, Dr. House, we do appreciate your business."

House hung up and let out a deep breath. He composed a quick text to Cuddy - _Just talked to the window company. Window will arrive tomorrow afternoon. I'll meet them while you're representing the hospital at the funeral._ He hit send, then sat back. Even if there had been a very small chance that she was planning to force him, that would kill it. Cuddy wouldn't want to mess up the company's schedule or leave Marina with this task, even if she did feel tempted to stage-manage his grief process.

House started tossing the ball again. Up, down. Up, down. His thoughts were still in turmoil.

(H/C)

Wilson closed the door of his office. He gave a quick glance across the balcony, where the team appeared to be absent and House appeared to be thinking on a case, playing with his ball. A reassuringly normal sight; hopefully things were falling back into routine. Wilson quickly crossed to his own desk, then looked at his watch and deliberately made himself wait 10 minutes, playing with one of his gifts from a patient. He didn't want to talk to Jensen himself; he needed to make sure the psychiatrist was good and wrapped up in a session first.

Saved by the funeral. He had just heard on the PPTH grapevine the timing on Thirteen's funeral. It couldn't possibly have been scheduled better. His appointment in Middletown, 2 hours away, was at 4:00. No way could he both attend a funeral at 2:00 and be at Jensen's at 4:00, and expressing his respects for a coworker had to come first. Nobody could object to that choice. Jensen would simply have to wait until next week to dissect Wilson's recent lapse, and next Wednesday being the day before Thanksgiving, hopefully the psychiatrist would be eager to get home to his family for the holiday and would be distracted and go a little lighter in judgment.

With the 10 minutes up, the oncologist pulled out his phone and dialed.

"Dr. Jensen's office, may I help you?"

"This is Dr. James Wilson. I'm calling to cancel my appointment tomorrow afternoon; I just learned this morning that the funeral of a colleague is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, as well. Of course, I'll be going to that, and I really can't fit in both."

"I understand, Dr. Wilson. Would you like to reschedule? We have an open slot on Thursday this week."

"No, that's okay. I'll just wait for next week. Tell Jensen, but he knows about the death already. He'll understand."

"I'll let him know. Thank you for calling, Dr. Wilson, and I'm sorry about your colleague."

"Me, too," he replied, momentarily completely serious. He really did feel badly for Thirteen. And her funeral _was_ really tomorrow afternoon. It wasn't like he'd gone out looking for an excuse; it had fallen into his lap unasked.

Wilson hung up and started paperwork. Half an hour later, Jensen called back. Wilson let it go to voicemail. He was busy.


	41. Chapter 41

House wasn't sure how long he sat there tossing his thoughts along with his ball, but eventually, his mind started demanding tests. The fact that he often left verifying tests until after the diagnosis did not mean that he failed to perform them altogether. Maybe the page had slipped off the stack somehow in Cuddy's office, or more likely in the psychiatrist's in Lexington. He ought to have more data to fit into this equation. He wrenched his mind away from the subject of what Cuddy had done, but it jumped tracks irrepressibly to what Cuddy might do, and from there back to the funeral tomorrow.

Whether he had her falsely accused or not, he was very glad of that window installation appointment. A Cuddy-proof funeral excuse was well worth $1000. He was NOT going to this funeral tomorrow, not through simple asking, not through coercion, not through kidnapping, not at all. The one funeral he'd been to had been enough to last him a lifetime, even leaving out the fact that he had been forced to attend it. It had been his first and last, although it should not have been either. He knew he _should_ be going tomorrow, as Thirteen's boss if nothing else. He actually would have liked to say goodbye to her. But he couldn't. He would only ruin it for them.

He still remembered his mother's call, the afternoon before the night when Amber was hurt. (Oddly, he never thought of it as the night he himself was hurt. That night and the one after were dominated by Amber.) Blythe had asked him to help his father diagnostically, which he couldn't have done even if he'd wanted to. Furthermore, he didn't want to; as far as he was concerned, the bastard couldn't die soon enough. After he said all of this, with more bluntness than he usually used back then with his still-uninformed mother, she had asked him to at least call John while there was still time and apologize for being a difficult son to him. House had hung up on her and gone out to get plastered - and Amber had died. Amber's funeral had taken place while House himself was still in the ICU, still feeling his slow way back through the medical maze of recovery after the seizure and DBS had compounded an already-severe head injury.

_That_ was the funeral that he would always think he should have attended first in his life. He couldn't have, medically, but that still on reflection felt like a shallow excuse. He knew Amber had been a victim of a chain of coincidence, and it hadn't been his fault. He also had all but killed himself trying to save her. Still, the _one_ time in his life previously that he had actually wanted to go to a funeral, and had wanted it for the same reasons everybody else seemed to go to them, to show support for those left behind, to remember the life snuffed out, to say goodbye - the _one_ time he wished he could have, he had been so zoned out from a combination of TBI and heavy meds that he hadn't even known the significance of the day until somebody mentioned it later. Wilson had gone alone. House should have gone to that one, to support his friend, to remember, to say farewell, to . . .

To grieve.

Funerals in his mind were categorized into two groups of associations. The larger by far was framed by his father's predictions and descriptions - _"Everybody will laugh at you." "You would only ruin the whole process for the rest of them; you being there would turn it into a joke." "When it's your turn to be lying there, Greg, not one person will have anything good to say." - _with the framed picture in the middle being John's funeral, as much of a mockery and a joke as John himself had told Greg any funeral his son attended would become. In a way, the predictions had come true, and it didn't matter that the sham had only truly been perceived at the time by himself with a side dose of Wilson, who had been aware of the mockery even on far-incomplete knowledge. The whole affair really had been a bad joke. One he'd been forced to hear, even while groaning in anticipation of the flat punch line.

But the second, smaller heading under the keyword of "funerals" in his mind would always be Amber's funeral as he pictured it. That one had not been a joke. He would have attended that one in all seriousness if he could. But fate had stepped in even more firmly than John and held him to the side to let everyone else grieve without his contribution.

Whether his presence tomorrow would turn Thirteen's funeral into a travesty, whether everyone there would, as John predicted, turn accusing and belittling eyes on him (Foreman no doubt really would, at least), whether he himself would be unable to focus on and truly remember Thirteen in that setting for wishing he could remember Amber in that setting and thus diminish the true tragedy of Thirteen's death, he had no intention of finding out. That differential would be left open. One of those three things would happen, he was certain, and he didn't want to experience any of them.

Leave the grief of others unmarred by his own presence. He WOULD NOT go to that funeral tomorrow. Period. End of discussion.

House pushed back firmly from his desk, deciding to go find another mental bone for his hyperactive mind to chew. Distracting himself from thoughts of Cuddy's concealing the fax cover sheet by thinking instead about his feelings on funerals was not an improvement. What he really needed was a case. Why was the team taking so long finding one, anyway? He stood up, ready to hunt them down and provide a little additional motivation.

If he had wanted a distraction, one presented just then in spades. The door to his office clicked open, and Cameron entered.

House groaned aloud. "Great. _Just _what I needed. If you've come for my feelings, they're still in my other pants."

Cameron faced him. She hadn't expected him to make this easy, but she had to say it. Even if he scoffed in her face and insulted her, just once, she had to say it. She couldn't help it. She'd spent all weekend since hearing about the papers at work Saturday rewriting the past in the light of her new knowledge. She never questioned the accuracy, which several people on the PPTH grapevine were. Many considered it an obvious shady lawyer trick, and the name of the attorney on those papers was enough to make you doubt every last comma underneath it. But to Cameron, it was like the overhead light being switched on in a room which had previously been illuminated by only a candle. She had an advantage that almost no one else at PPTH did. She had actually _seen_ House with John, had hovered in the doorway of the cafeteria watching for several minutes. House's body language during that conversation had been unlike any other time in her several-year acquaintance with him, either before or after. No, she had no doubt at all. This accounted for everything that his inadequate explanation to her later the evening of his parents' visit had not. She took a deep breath. "House, I know you don't want to hear this."

"Great, we're agreed. So long." He sliced relentlessly across her carefully rehearsed speech and started to limp around her toward the door. She shifted ground, resolutely blocking him, and he sighed.

"I'll only say it once. I just wanted to let you know," she continued, "that this isn't going to change my respect or admiration for you at all. In fact, it increases it." He glared at her and looked pointedly at his watch, the picture of someone whose time is being wasted. "Looking back, I think I understand a lot more now. That night that I saw you with your father, sitting there in the cafeteria . . ."

House's anger blazed up so suddenly in the blue eyes that it startled her into momentary silence. She couldn't have known that he was hearing his father again in memory. _"You know what your problem is, Greg? You just don't know how lucky you are."_ "You're _wrong_," he shouted. "Just go back to hell and STAY THERE!"

Cameron stared. She'd hardly expected a warm reception, but she hadn't expected that much pure venom, either. "I'm . . . I'm sorry." He flinched. "I just needed to say . . ."

House shook his head, more like he was clearing it than like he was indicating a negative. His voice dropped, leaving him sounding just angry now, not livid. "Cameron, how long have you known me? If you really think that giving me some carefully rehearsed speech of affirmation and support is the best approach, you clearly haven't known me long enough. Either that, or you adopted blond wits when you added the blond hair. Go give your support to somebody who cares. Is Chase not around enough any more to use up your daily recommended allowance of sympathy? He's had a hell of a background himself, you know. Or is he getting his sympathy elsewhere these days?"

Cameron felt her own anger blaze up under his relentless jabs. "Screw you," she snapped, much to House's delight. Ah yes, much better now. "You're right, this was a total waste of my time. I should have just joined most of them in believing none of it is true." She spun sharply on her heel to head for the door.

"Cameron." His voice was soft again, with that ghost of vulnerability under it, the voice that she had once dreamed about years ago. She squared her shoulders, absolutely refusing to turn around and stop her exit march. His power over her emotionally was officially over. "They're saying none of it is true?"

She stopped instantly, hearing the desperate hope underneath that last line. She couldn't help herself. She turned back to face him. "From the office of Reginald Travis? Are you kidding? Yes, so far, out of the people I've heard talking, I'd say well over half think not a word of it is true. They think it's something he's made up to try to shake you, to make it look to the hospital like grounds for a case when he really has none. Posting the papers like that is obviously some sneaky motive and not a genuine legal challenge; the money so far is on a shady lawyer trying to get revenge by trashing your reputation at the hospital with lies, not realizing that your reputation here, for good or bad, is far beyond the reach of creeps like Travis."

House stood absolutely still, looking at her, his eyes suddenly more grateful and open than at any time so far in this conversation. "Thank you," he said, with all the soft, undiluted sincerity with which he had thanked her that long-ago night for not going to dinner along with his parents.

She smiled at him. "House, really, it was none of my business." He heard the echo himself of that night, and she saw it connect in his eyes. "I've got to get back to ER." She walked out, not prolonging the moment to the point where it was bound to shatter again. She felt like she actually had accomplished her mission, even if not the way she'd rehearsed it. She noted Dr. Andrews from Pediatrics getting out of the elevator as she got in - odd for him to be up on the fourth floor - and then dismissed him as unimportant, her mind still on House.

House nearly ran into Andrews himself as he exited the office, a small fraction of newfound confidence in his step. They thought it was all lies. Several of them thought it was lies. That possibility hadn't even landed on his mental whiteboard of options, but he liked it much better than the rest.

"House," Andrews said, studying him. "I was just coming up to offer my condolences on Dr. Hadley."

House wondered how the man's actual resemblance to a weasel had never struck him before. He gave a patented Housian shrug. "Yeah, it's a tragedy. Unfortunately, things like that do happen. Did you know the suicide rate among doctors is one of the highest in any profession? Well, hate to run, but I've got more important things to deal with." He strolled on past the startled pediatrician for two strides, then gave an ear-splitting bellow. "WILSON!"

The door of the oncology office opened a few moments later, and then Wilson's head emerged around the corner. "You roared?"

"Time for you to buy me lunch."

Wilson sighed. "Of course; I somehow forgot to write that down on my daily schedule. How thoughtless of me. Just a minute. Let me get my wallet." He disappeared into his office, then re-emerged a moment later, and the two doctors strolled on to the elevator, leaving Andrews standing outside Diagnostics watching them with a look of pure bewilderment.


	42. Chapter 42

A/N: If you want to see a funny medical video, go to Youtube and search for Laryngospasms Waking Up Is Hard to Do. This is a group of anesthesiologists who sing. Hilarious.

(H/C)

The elevator was empty, fortunately. House turned to Wilson after the doors had shut off their view of Andrews' puzzled frown. "Andrews is the one who put all the copies in the mail and posted in the doctor's lounge, and he's probably feeding Patrick updates."

Wilson looked dubious. "Andrews? The man isn't capable of an original thought even if someone paid him to have it."

"But it's not _his_ original thought," House pointed out. "Patrick and Reginald Travis are the schemers, and they are fully qualified for the position. Andrews is only mailman."

"He did have Christopher's case first," Wilson conceded. "And I know he doesn't like you. Okay, business as usual around Andrews. How's the rest of the day going so far?"

House scowled at the elevator floor numbers as they approached the bottom, and he firmly pulled the button to stop the elevator temporarily. "Nothing unexpected except Cameron." And Cuddy, but no way was he going to discuss that with Wilson. He couldn't forget that Wilson had been a very active participant in the Great Funeral Caper. Chances of a repeat funeral conspiracy were slim, but still, House couldn't convince himself they were nonexistent, especially in light of that fax cover sheet. He reminded himself that any food or drink (or syringes) tomorrow were suspect.

Wilson flinched in sympathy. "Cameron was unexpected? She's incapable of leaving this alone. You're slipping."

"I'd totally forgotten about her temporarily. Had a bad weekend. Speaking of which, have you talked to Sandra yet?"

Wilson immediately reached out and pushed in the button, freeing the elevator to resume operation. "No."

House limped after him as the oncologist hurried out of the car. "Can't avoid things forever, you know."

"Says the king of evasion. I've just been learning from the master."

House was thinking up his next jab in this refreshingly normal game of Wilson baiting when a voice stopped him in his tracks - him and several surrounding people in the bustling hospital. "House!" He turned with a sigh to see a large man barreling toward him, a triumphant sneer pasted onto the features. "House, that was some really enlightening reading posted in the doctor's lounge." Anybody in the lobby had to hear every word clearly. The man had a voice like a trumpet.

House took a deep breath, shoved the cold rock down out of his throat into his stomach, and squared his own shoulders. "Really? Your adventures with THREE, count 'em, different nurses on the same weekend last month were posted? Who would do that? I can see someone informing your wife, especially as fuel to her alimony claim since she filed for divorce on you last week, but I'm surprised it's newsworthy at the hospital; everybody knows you've got all the morals of an alley cat. Still, three in one weekend, isn't a bad score, even if you needed Viagra by the end. Hey Nurse Matthews, did you hear that?" House switched focus to one of the bystanders. "You were one of a line of three. Want to know who _came_ first?" The subtle emphasis was not lost on her, nor on the rest of the audience.

The other doctor was sputtering in rage, like a teakettle about to boil over. "That's . . . that's not true." His volume lowered suddenly, trying to pull the conversation into a more restricted list of recipients.

"Want names on the other two?" House still wasn't modulating his voice.

Nurse Matthews took matters into her own hands, walking across to the rapidly purpling doctor and slapping him straight across his cheek. "You two-timing son-of-a-bitch!"

"Three-timing, technically," House corrected. "Actually, since he is - for the moment - still married, he was four-timing. You really ought to talk to his wife; she'll be quite interested in all this, as will her divorce lawyer."

"You promised me that I was the one you really loved! And SHE filed for divorce? You told me YOU were going to file for divorce!"

"And you actually believed him?" House asked dryly.

Nurse Matthews barely heard him that time, escalating in volume and content on her true target, and Wilson nudged House's arm. "Let's go," he suggested, sotto voce, and House nodded and followed him through the crowd, making good their escape. Every eye around them was still riveted on the live soap opera in the lobby. "Well played," Wilson said after a moment. "That was perfect." He reached out to touch House's arm briefly, noting in the second before House shrugged the touch off that his friend was trembling slightly.

House turned toward the door of the cafeteria, fighting down the cold rock which had settled into his stomach and was considering terms of a long-term lease there. "So, what do you want for lunch?"

Wilson obligingly retreated into casual banter. Just a routine day at PPTH. "You tell me. You're going to steal it anyway."

(H/C)

It was mid afternoon when House limped into Cuddy's office without knocking. She looked up from fishing for a file on her desk and immediately smiled. "Hi, Greg. How's it going?"

"Not much new since after lunch. Mainly working on the case." Cuddy had come up to his office after her lunch meeting to check on him and his day, but their conversation had been cut short as Kutner and Taub came in proudly bearing a genuinely interesting case. House had lost himself in work since then - or tried to.

"So what brings you down to my neighborhood?" she asked, fishing gently. He looked tense to her. Of course, he had enough stressors already to more than explain that. Still, she wasn't sure yet if he simply wanted comfort, which he would never ask for directly, of course, or actually had a case-related errand.

"The team -" he flinched as he called it that. Half of the team, really. "The team is running tests and will be for an hour or so at least. Meanwhile, I've changed my mind. I do want to read Mom's therapy notes."

Cuddy nodded, fishing out her keys and unlocking the top drawer of her desk. "Here they are. I've got a meeting I was about to head to." House had known that already, had in fact timed his visit right before it. "I'll stay with you, though, if you want me here." She studied him, trying to gauge whether he wanted support or privacy at the moment. It was such a fine line to walk with him.

"No, that's okay. Go on to your meeting." He met her gaze steadily. "I was _there_, Lisa. Nothing Mom said in those notes is going to surprise me."

"All right, Greg, if you're sure." She walked across, holding out the stack. "It surprised me, like I said. Gave me a whole different perspective. I was actually feeling sorry for her by the end - not that that totally excuses her, but I just thought I understood things a little better."

"We can talk about it later. You don't want to be late for your meeting." House took the papers from her. "You are keeping them locked up?"

"Absolutely. They've either been locked up or directly with me since the fax came yesterday." She fished the one key off her ring. "Just lock them back in the desk when you finish. There's nothing in that drawer I'll need for the rest of the day. I can get the key back from you when we go home tonight; probably not a good idea to leave them here while I'm totally gone."

He accepted the key and pocketed it. "And you were standing right there at the machine when the fax arrived?" he asked.

"Yes. I watched it come. Trust me, nobody else has had their hands on this copy." She hugged him. "Text me if you need me, Greg. I'll come back."

"Speaking of texts, you got mine about the window company?" He wanted to observe her subliminal response to the thought of funerals.

It was hardly subliminal. She tightened up, her eyes a mixture of disappointment and knowledge that this was a manufactured excuse. "Yes, I did, and I wish you'd reconsider. We can call them back and reschedule."

If she called the window company, she would find out about the $1000. "No, we really need to get that window replaced. My personal barometer says the weather is turning on us tomorrow. It is heading into winter, you know." He ran one hand down his leg. That much was perfectly true; he hadn't seen the weather report, but he would have bet money on a front coming in within the next 24 hours.

Cuddy sighed and jumped subject herself, but he could tell she wasn't resigned yet to his (non) funeral arrangements. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay while you read those notes?"

"Go on. I'll be fine." She turned somewhat reluctantly for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob to look back at him once before going on out.

House sat down on the couch and studied the pages. Right at the top, the fax receipt line printed by Cuddy's machine clearly marked this sheet as page two, and the first entry on the notes below was indeed a new patient visit summary dated a year and a half ago, shortly after Blythe had left Princeton after the tumultuous events surrounding her being brought into the loop by Wilson. Just in case the papers had somehow been out of order at the psychiatrist's office and simply rearranged correctly by Cuddy, House flipped through each one, comparing page numbers. Without a doubt, page one of this fax was missing. He got up and went to her desk, searching the entire top and every drawer, including the locked one. Nowhere. He stared at the shredder, but assembling that jigsaw puzzle would take far longer than he had and involve too much extraneous material. The pertinent fact was clear; the front page was missing, deliberately removed, most likely shredded, and Cuddy herself stated that she had watched the fax arrive and that no one else had touched it.

With a sigh, House returned to the couch and picked up the therapy notes. He hadn't really meant to read them, just count pages, but he found himself unable to resist the call of the writing. Part of his mind realized that, ironically, he was actually using his own past now to distract himself from the present. A lapse on Cuddy's part into old habits under extreme pressure was understandable, but she should have admitted it to him afterward; he had given her a perfect opportunity just now. Over all loomed the fear of tomorrow's funeral and the Ghost of the Funeral Past. Surely she would never try something like that again. Would she?

And what if she would? It wasn't like he had anybody else willing to put up with him as a husband, and he knew he would drown completely in this crisis without her support. If she was determined to manage that support as she herself deemed best occasionally, if she was absolutely set on getting him to that funeral regardless of his wishes, what alternative did he have? Even if he could have survived life without her and the girls, he wouldn't have wanted to by now. Besides, his family also needed him. This was irrevocably his life now, no matter what she might decide on his behalf. Had he finally found the catch he'd always feared tripping over someday, the conditions that would be required of him in order to continue his newfound happiness? Was being drugged occasionally to go to funerals of her choice simply going to be part of his future? If it was, he knew there was nothing he could do. If that was the price of having her in his life, he would pay it. His family was easily worth an occasional forced kidnapping of himself. But his whole body still clenched thinking about that funeral and remembering John's predictions.

Almost eagerly, savagely, he started reading. As he'd told Cuddy, there was nothing there that surprised him, nothing that he hadn't already known. Blythe had her faults, plenty of them, faults which he had himself analyzed in childhood, but even flawed, she had been _all_ that he had, the one person around whom he could sometimes pretend to himself that things were normal. Still, reading it from her end, remembering the iron grip his father held on their home, brought back all the feelings of helplessness, all the fear and pain of childhood, as well as the oft-repeated threat that John would kill Blythe in front of him if he ever told. He relived the horror of his childhood through her horrified eyes. He remembered the dread that had filled him on the nights she was out at a John-approved activity, leaving him alone with his father. When he came to the end, he set the pages down on the arm of the couch and buried his face in his hands, trying to shut out the world, both the present one and that of his past. His shoulders were shaking, not with tears but with the crushing weight of it all.

Cuddy opened the office door. Remembering her own reaction to those notes and unable to concentrate on hospital business at the moment anyway, she had ducked out of her meeting for an alleged bathroom break. In fact, it was her own extreme emotional reaction to those notes that had completely displaced the shredded fax cover sheet in her mind; she truly hadn't thought of it once since reading the chronicle of Blythe's therapy. Right now, she had planned to simply walk by her office and peer surreptitiously between the mostly closed blinds, pressing her face to the glass for a quick, worried check on him, not intruding unless needed. A quick, worried check was more than enough to tell her that her House radar had been correct.

He was oblivious to her entrance or her hurried footsteps across the office, not even looking up when she sat down beside him on the couch, but he definitely felt her arm go around him and pull him over into her warm presence. "Greg."

He leaned against her, hiding his eyes from everything, even the possibility of her betrayal of his trust tomorrow, and simply let her hold him.


	43. Chapter 43

Wilson sat at the table mechanically munching his way through dinner. Cooking had never been high among Sandra's interests - she was refreshingly atypical that way, reminding him vaguely at times of Amber in her screw-people's-expectations nonchalance, although the two women were miles apart in other areas. Still, Wilson knew that the fact the food tasted like sawdust tonight was hardly the fault of her meal.

"James, are you okay?"

He looked up and studied his current girlfriend. Sandra was middle-sized, brunette, with laughing eyes that proclaimed she enjoyed life, but she had quite a sensitivity in dealing with people, too. She was an ICU nurse at PPTH, and Wilson had first noticed her a year ago after the car accident that came so close to annihilating House's family in one fell swoop. Sandra was one of the few nurses in ICU who had been able to tolerate House as a patient and who had managed not to completely piss him off, which of course had resulted in her getting more of the duties in that room as her coworkers eagerly passed the buck. Forthright but without the defiant edge that had marked Amber, utterly devoted to her job and excellent at it - that was Sandra. She looked worried at the moment, searching his face across the table. "I'm okay," he assured her. "It's just been a tough few days."

She scowled. "They've all been talking yesterday and today about House. You'd think the word confidentiality had never been heard inside a hospital. None of them actually cared, either; that's the worst. It was just gossip to them, good for a juicy conversation whether they believed it or not." She liked House, and he actually returned the favor, although he would never have said so.

Wilson immediately grabbed her misassumption as to the cause of his perturbation and ran with it. "So you saw the papers?" He'd told her this weekend that a former patient's family and a shady lawyer were trying to bring House down and his friend acutely needed his help, but he hadn't gone into details, more because he'd been trying to avoid extended conversations with her than because he didn't trust her discretion. Tonight was actually the first time since last week before the oncology conference that they had sat down together to dinner.

"Somebody had a copy and was passing them around." She shook her head. "It's true, isn't it?" There was pure compassion in her eyes, as well as anger.

"Yes, it's true," Wilson conceded. "That and a lot more. I've never gone into details on his past with you because . . ."

"He doesn't want anyone to know," she immediately filled in. "He wouldn't. Poor House."

"Call him that to his face, and you're liable to get assaulted with a cane."

She gave a sad smile. "I wouldn't ever call him that to his face. But are you sure _you're_ all right? You seem to be taking this awfully hard somehow, even given what's going on with your best friend."

"I'm fine," Wilson assured her. "Just worried for him. That's all."

"At least talk to Jensen about it, okay? I know he's helped you so much dealing with Danny."

Wilson shifted uneasily in his chair. "Well, um, I canceled my appointment tomorrow. It conflicts with Hadley's funeral."

Sandra immediately recalled the other main topic of hospital gossip at the moment. "Yeah, that's right. Poor Dr. Hadley. Of course we have to go to that. Jensen didn't have any other openings this week?"

"No, he didn't. Relax, I'm just worried about House." He pushed back his chair, dodging from deception into an arena where he was much more skilled. "In fact, I haven't had a chance for a few nights to show you just how fine I am. I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too." Sandra stood up from the table herself, perfectly willing, but she still looked thoughtful and a bit dubious.

When they reached the end of the hall, Wilson refused to turn the bedroom lights on. Somehow, it was easier to lie to her in the dark.

(H/C)

Cuddy was worried, and she didn't quite know why. So much was wrong that she already knew about that asking him if something was wrong seemed an absurd question and would almost certainly be ridiculed as such, but a new element in House's demeanor bothered her tonight. He had been very quiet since the encounter in her office, although he had accepted her support then. She couldn't put her finger on the difference tonight; she just knew there was one.

House was playing piano at the moment, both girls and the cat happily sprawling in the floor and listening to him. Cuddy kept an ear cocked in that direction as she finished loading the dishwasher after dinner. House's playing tonight had lost the odd log-jammed feeling from this weekend, the sense of blocked emotions, but the emotional story that was portrayed now was a telling one. He wasn't exactly playing any known piece, although she could catch bits here and there, more his own arrangements and progressions. He had started out with light, frisky jazz, showing off a little for his daughters, but it kept irrepressibly drifting to slow half blues, half contemplation. He would get annoyed and modulate back into upbeat pizzaz, and once again, the music would betray him and convert itself back to deep thoughtfulness, melancholy dripping off the keys. He could not keep the music bright, although he was doggedly trying. Cuddy sighed.

House wrenched the music back from its latest escape just as she exited the kitchen. She settled on the couch, watching him. His face was closed off, all of his feelings in his fingers at the moment. He ran a quick, dazzling sequence across the full length of the keyboard, and Rachel laughed. "Glad you approve," he told her.

"They always love listening to you play," Cuddy chimed in. "So do I. Greg, is anything . . ."

His cell phone rang at that moment. He resolved the tonic on the music, then stopped to fish out the phone. "Jensen," he said. He immediately hauled himself to his feet. "He probably wants the story of my day. You can go ahead and get the girls to bed."

"NO!" insisted Rachel, who knew what bed meant. She was already droopy eyed, as was Abby, but stubbornly fighting it tonight.

House laughed, but even the laugh sounded a bit melancholy. "You can't always get what you want, Rachel. Just ask Mick Jagger." He bent over to kiss her, then Abby. "Night, girls. I love you." Was Cuddy imagining the unusual emphasis on that statement tonight?

House turned away, limping down the hall as he finally silenced the protesting cell phone right before it switched to voicemail. "Hello."

"Dr. House? Is this a bad time?"

"No. I was just saying good night to the girls." House entered the bedroom and closed the door firmly.

"First, Cathy would like to talk to you for a minute, but you don't have to. I'm in my study, so she's not listening right now. It's totally your choice."

House was in the extended process of getting settled on the bed with his leg stretched out. "Cathy? Why would she want to talk to me?"

"Ask her yourself," Jensen challenged. The psychiatrist sounded much more upbeat at the moment than House himself felt. House was glad somebody had apparently had a good day.

Curiosity won out. "Okay, I'll talk to her. She goes on your dime, though, not mine," he joked, trying to sound his usual self, although he knew Jensen would be hard to fool. He didn't think he was doing a great job with Cuddy, either. He kept catching her watching him tonight.

"Thank you. Hang on a minute." House heard footsteps, then a door opening. "Okay, Cathy, but keep it short. You need to finish your homework and get to bed."

"Oh, Dad!" There was a soft shuffle as the phone exchanged hands, then Cathy's bright tones. She sounded on top of the world, as if she'd just finished a whole weekend of existence solely on Mountain Dew and M&Ms. "Hi, Dr. House!"

House felt his spirits rising a bit just at her tone. He couldn't help it. Rachel would probably be like this at age 8, with her boundless drive and energy. "Hi, Cathy."

"Thank you SO much."

House blinked at the closed bedroom door in confusion. Why would she be thanking him? "For what?"

"The piano. My recital was tonight, remember?"

Oh, right. "I've . . . had a lot going on. I remember now. How did it go?"

"It was great! It really fit together, just with thinking of a river, like you said. I was having _fun_. Course, I'm still not that good, but it was better, and it didn't sound like I was in pain that time, not like it usually does. It wasn't that bad compared to the others at my level. And then the teacher after everything was over said it was the best I'd ever done it, and she was talking like it was because of her, you know. Like I didn't do anything. Then Mom got mad at her, because she was saying I'd taken a while to really start working as a student but had finally decided to start applying myself, and Mom fired her right there and told her she'd just held me back."

House was grinning, remembering the four-timing doctor. "It's fun to see somebody who's too cocky get taken down a few notches when they were trying to look impressive."

"Yep," Cathy agreed. "Then Mom got to asking some of the other parents, and she got the name of another teacher we're going to try. She's going to call her tomorrow, and I never have to go back to this one again. But the best part of all was just playing it tonight. It was right there, like I was thinking through my fingers, and it just came out. You know what I mean?"

"I know exactly what you mean. That's wonderful, Cathy."

"Thank you so much. I wish you were up here so I could give you a hug in person. I'm going to hug the phone instead, okay?"

House smiled, again imagining Rachel six years down the road. "Go ahead, but be careful not to cut us off. I think your dad wants to talk to me."

"Yeah, he's making 'knock it off and go do homework' faces at me." There was a shuffle during which she obviously actually did hug the phone, then her whirlwind enthusiasm again. "Thanks again, Dr. House. I've got to go now. Dad's about to steal the phone. Good night, Dr. House."

"Good night, Cathy."

There was a brief scramble, then Jensen's voice again. "She really was good tonight. It was the best she'd ever done." House could hear footsteps and then the door as Jensen obviously retreated to his study. "Thank you for that. She's been so frustrated, and that's not usual for her. I should have questioned before what was really going on. You put it together instantly."

House shifted on the bed, uncomfortable with the praise. "You aren't going to hug the phone, are you?"

Jensen laughed. "No, I'll refrain. It is good to see her acting like her usual self about the music, though. I've sometimes wished I could bottle up her energy. It would be handy at times."

"I've had the same thought with Rachel." House felt the weight of everything dragging him down again. He definitely could use some IV energy right about now.

"How was your day?" Jensen asked, his tone settling into seriousness.

House sighed. "It . . . it was a lot of different things. I managed to keep up a front well enough, I think."

"Good. It will get easier, Dr. House. Like I said, most of them will take their cue from you."

"According to Cameron - one of my former fellows; think you've met her at the hospital - at least half of them think it's a pack of lies anyway. They think the lawyer is just making up stuff to try to ruin my arrogant bastard image as some kind of underhanded legal revenge, and they aren't buying it."

"I expected that reaction from a lot of them."

"I didn't. I'd made out a list of sorts mentally, and that wasn't even on it."

"You said Dr. Cameron told you this. You were actually having an open conversation with her about people's reactions?"

House sighed again. "You don't know Cameron. She's all about getting in touch with your feelings, and she used to have a huge crush on me besides. There's no way in hell she'd leave this alone, especially since she actually saw me with Dad once years ago. She'd be automatically filling in blanks, even manufacturing more blanks than there were to begin with. She came up to my office this morning dripping sympathy and support, wanting to talk through everything and reassure me, and it took me a while to get her pissed off enough to decide to walk out instead." Cameron's former crush reminded him of Cuddy's much deeper love, which reminded him of the fax from his mother. He trailed off into silence, his mind reverting to tomorrow's funeral and whether Cuddy did or did not have extra plans surrounding it.

"Dr. House?"

House blinked and focused, wondering how many times Jensen had said his name. More than once, he was afraid. "Sorry. It's been a long day."

He heard the skepticism coming through the phone, loud and clear. "And you just said you were sorry. Where did you go right then mentally? It was important."

House shook his head. "Damn it, you're annoying to talk to at times. You read too much into things. I'm just tired, and I've had a hell of a day."

"You must be tired if you think there's any chance I'm buying that," Jensen persisted.

House ran a hand along his leg. "Worth a shot."

"You're wasting ammunition, Dr. House. I'm not the enemy. What were you thinking of there?"

House debated. He really didn't want to talk to Jensen about the funeral. Jensen, who was big on boosting self-worth, would probably object to House deciding it was all right for Cuddy to drug and kidnap him now and then if that was what it took to keep his family. House finally settled for half an answer, hoping that half would be enough to throw the psychiatrist off the scent. "I read Mom's therapy notes today," he said.

"And it reminded you of everything?" Jensen suggested.

House shivered, again feeling the helplessness surround him. "I didn't really expect it to. I thought there was nothing they could say that I hadn't already experienced first hand, and I was right on that, but still . . ." He trailed off.

"You're mixing up facts and feelings again," Jensen stated. "Factually, there was nothing new, but emotionally, I'm sure it brought everything back, especially as you were reading it from someone else's perspective. That's perfectly normal, Dr. House. I'd be worried if you could have read those notes without a strong reaction. Was Dr. Cuddy there?"

"Not at first. I went down to her office to read them right before she had a meeting, and I told her to go on, but she left it and came back to check on me."

"Good for her. Why did you deliberately go down to read them at a point you knew she was leaving?"

House flared up. "I did _not_ say that. You're reading into things again."

"Once you've learned to read, you can't help it. Try not reading signs on the highway sometimes. And you definitely made a point of going down there right before she left. Otherwise you wouldn't have phrased that statement like you did."

House sighed. "I just wanted to read them alone, okay? I need to get going. It really has been a hell of a day, and we wanted to go to bed early."

Jensen yielded. Having phone sessions with somebody was always a bit trickier than in person. The psychiatrist had no doubt there was something major here, but he would have to scout it out next time; House was shutting down on him. At least House had answered the phone, unlike Wilson, who was obviously in high-speed denial. "Okay, we'll leave it there. For the moment. I agree you could use an early night, especially after last night."

"She was actually late this morning," House noted, relaxing slightly now that the touchy topic had been left. "I slept late, of course; taking drugs after midnight does that to you. She was just late, didn't go on herself. She even lied to the hospital."

"She would never have let you walk into the hospital alone this morning."

"That's what she said." House leaned his head back and closed his eyes. She really did love him. Yes, it was worth being kidnapped to keep such devotion. "I've got to go. Long day tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Dr. Hadley's funeral, right? Dr. Wilson mentioned it when he called to cancel his appointment."

Damn it, how had they wound up back on the subject of funerals? "Right. I don't want to go, so don't even start."

"I wasn't going to. It's your choice." That's what you think, House thought. "Speaking psychiatrically, I can see both sides of that, anyway. It's not just a simple decision, and there isn't a wrong answer for you right now."

"I need to go," House insisted. "Lisa was putting the girls down to bed. I need to tell them good night."

Which he already had said he'd done at first, Jensen noted. He also was calling Cuddy Lisa, another sign that he was rattled. Still, he did sound exhausted, he no doubt really had had a hell of a day, and it was time to leave it. Jensen had just wanted to touch base tonight, making sure House still was processing through things and not totally locked up mentally, and he clearly was functioning, even if under stress. Friday would be soon enough for a full session, although Jensen would call tomorrow night, too. He knew the funeral would dominate House's day tomorrow, even if he himself didn't go. "I'll leave you to your family then. Good night, Dr. House."

"Good night." House clicked off and leaned back, closing his eyes again. He felt utterly drained.

He was nearly asleep when there was a soft tap at the bedroom door, and Cuddy tentatively stuck her head through a moment later. "Are you done talking to Jensen, Greg?"

He opened his eyes. "Yes. He just wanted to check in."

Cuddy opened the door the rest of the way and came on in. "Let's just go to bed. Okay?"

House sat up, rubbing his leg. "Are the girls asleep?"

"Out like lights."

He stood up. "I'll be back in a minute. I just want to look at them." He limped across the hall to the nursery and stood there watching his daughters. Rachel was hugging her gift bear he had given her a year and a half ago - his first present to her. Abby was smacking her lips slightly as if dreaming of good things to eat. Pure innocence, refreshing in a world populated with people like Patrick and John. His family.

Cuddy came up behind him and hugged him, pulling him back against her, and he leaned into her warm presence. Yes, keeping his family was worth it. He wouldn't protest when she drugged him tomorrow. But he still would hate being at that funeral.


	44. Chapter 44

Wednesday morning was the first time since her death that Foreman had woken up without a hangover.

He went through the motions of the morning almost mechanically - eating breakfast (alone), taking a shower (alone), picking out clothes for the day (alone). She wasn't there any longer. He realized at one point that he was thinking of her as "she" now, never by name, and had a momentary panic that he could not remember her true name, pulling it out of memories to reassure himself, but the next second, she was back to "she." It would be her real name on the funeral cards and on the tombstone, of course. How like House to distill someone's essence down to a mere number, or to try to, at least.

Foreman was numbly surprised to discover that most of his wardrobe was quite suitable for a funeral. Had he really exhibited that little vitality in his everyday life? Professionalism at work put constraints on attire - he would never show the utter disrespect for the patients and the job that House's wardrobe did - but still, there were other doctors who looked professional without routinely looking like a mannequin for a suit shop.

He got ready far in advance, then sat there in the living room (alone), looking around the apartment they had shared. Waiting, still half expecting her voice or her presence to emerge from another room, wake him up from the nightmare, and turn this into a normal day after all. Simply waiting. Waiting for her funeral.

(H/C)

About mid morning, Cuddy entered House's office. He was sitting at his desk, researching an article on a tropical disease online as the team (half the team) ran tests. Their patient was stable but proving challenging, and he would have liked to find the answer before everybody's absence. All of them had half of today off, of course, although House's schedule still allegedly claimed that he would be meeting the window installer. Taub had volunteered to stay with the patient, and House had insisted it wasn't needed, that Taub could duck out of the funeral if he wished but not use work as an excuse. Taub had studied him, refusing to be baited, then simply turned conversation back to their patient.

"Hey, Greg. How's it going?" Cuddy crossed the office to his desk, and he zeroed in like radar on the Styrofoam cup in her hand. It almost seemed to enlarge, dominating the office. This was it.

"The patient is a puzzle but not a critical one, at least," he replied, forcing his voice to be level.

She put the cup on his desk. "I had to go out for a few minutes on a hospital errand, so I brought you back a treat. Your favorite flavor from Starbucks."

Her voice was perfectly casual, her eyes and demeanor flawless. Boy, she was good, even better than he had realized. He had to admire her deception skills. "Thanks," he replied. He picked up the cup and studied it briefly. His family, he reminded himself. He had to do this to stay with her and his family. They were worth it. He took a gulp. It was indeed his favorite flavor, hot and slightly bitter, the taste perfect for disguising sedatives. He took another swallow.

Cuddy's voice softened. "There's still time to change your mind about the funeral, Greg. Other arrangements can be made on the window." Ah yes, the illusion of making it his choice. This was a near-exact parallel to the conversation in his office about his father's funeral, her standing there encouraging him then while knowing that the syringe had already backed up her arguments, knowing that he didn't in fact have a choice at all. Hell, she probably had already made arrangements on the window, either rescheduled or paying somebody to be there instead of him. Wilson? No, Wilson would never miss a funeral, too much against expected appearances. Besides, Cuddy would want Wilson's help in hauling his unconscious form into a suit and to the funeral. He flinched at the thought of the suit - even with him unconscious, he hated the thought of putting one on.

"Is it too hot?" Cuddy asked, seeing him wince.

"No. It's perfect." He took another few swallows. "The leg is just acting up a bit."

"Not surprising." She looked out the window at the grayscape. "The weather is turning, like you said. It's getting colder out there, too. Not sure if we're about to get rain or snow."

He flinched again. "House's weather service. I'm more accurate than the Weather Channel." This whole conversation felt fake, although he was trying to act as usual. This was even harder than keeping up the front with some of the hospital staff so far. "We do need to get that window replaced before tonight. I think winter is about to get here."

Cuddy studied him, her eyes concerned, reminding him of her expression at another encounter in his office, this one after the ketamine started to fail. Her standing right by his desk, asking with deep sincerity what was going on with his leg - and meanwhile lying behind his back about his last patient, once again making a decision "for his own good." He loved her, truly loved her, and her one flaw of very occasional manipulation was worth the trade-off of her continuing to put up with him. "Greg," she called, and he focused, realizing he'd drifted off into the abyss of thought again. "Greg, is anything wrong?"

The question was a mistake, just as she'd feared. He retreated into pure Housian sarcasm. "Is anything _wrong_? Well, let's see, where should I start at the moment?"

She sighed. "I meant anything I didn't know about. You just seem on edge last night and today."

The office door opened right then, and Kutner bustled in with all his standard enthusiasm. "Think we've got something on tests! Not an answer, but a new symptom."

"Great." House took the final few gulps of his drink, then handed Cuddy the cup, allowing her to see that it was empty. "Got to get to work at the moment, but I'm sure I'll be seeing you later."

She sighed again, threw away the cup, and turned to leave, and House stood up, making very sure his legs were going to hold him and that he didn't feel unstable yet, and headed for the conference room. He wondered what Kutner would do when he collapsed. Probably help them with him, of course. He sat down at the conference table, not wanting to risk a fall when his leg truly was aching from the weather today. Kutner studied him in mild surprise, and House nodded toward the whiteboard. "Take her for a test drive. But remember, you're under constant supervision. Obey all the traffic signs and be careful, and you're responsible personally for any increase in insurance rates."

Delighted, Kutner picked up the marker, uncapped it ceremoniously, and started to write.

(H/C)

By noon, House was totally baffled. He kept running subtle neurological checks on himself, testing out coordination and thought, even using his ball as a gauge. He felt absolutely fine. Well, his version of fine - leg giving him increasing hell as the weather degenerated, other assorted points aching from sympathy and increased strain. Any sedative she had used should have taken effect by now. He was conducting a mental differential on each possible drug, considering and then discarding it as a candidate, when Wilson entered. The oncologist had a bag of take-out.

Ah ha. The one-two punch, Cuddy to get his defenses down with harmless coffee, then Wilson with drugged lunch. The oncologist even looked exceptionally guilty and surreptitious at the moment, and from the looks he gave the food as he sat down across House's desk and started removing it, House knew he was specifically feeling bad about this lunch. "Want some lunch?" he asked.

"Long as you're buying." House gave a mental sigh. He wished they could just hurry up and get this charade over with. "Cafeteria still sells lunch, though."

Wilson literally jumped, guilt index tripling. "Well, um, no, that wouldn't . . . I was just in the mood for Chinese. And you're always in the mood for Chinese, so why complain?"

"Wasn't complaining. Just noting a fact." House dutifully started to munch from the container pushed toward him.

Wilson gave a sigh of relief at the inquisition not being continued. Actually, Sandra had texted him a half hour ago suggesting lunch together in the cafeteria before leaving for the funeral, and Wilson had replied that he was tied up with a patient, then immediately called for delivery. House plus Sandra right now was not a good combination, and House obviously would have tagged along to lunch before his manufactured window appointment. Wilson wasn't sure he could sit through a meal of subliminal hints dropped by his friend. Besides, Sandra might pick up on the undertones; she was bright, and she knew House. No, the cafeteria was definitely a place to avoid right now.

They munched in companionable silence, and then Wilson stood up. Right then, his cell phone buzzed with another text, and he pulled it out, read it, then returned the phone to his pocket without replying. "Well, better go check the patients," he said. "See you later. I mean, not at the funeral, of course, but some time later. Just in general. I mean . . . well, see you. Have a nice window installation." Wilson obsessively gathered up the empty food containers, bussing the desk, then discarded them and headed out. Once out of sight, he pulled out his cell phone and texted Cuddy, offering to drive her to the funeral along with him and Sandra to save her trouble. He then replied to Sandra's text about the afternoon's schedule, reporting this. Nope, he didn't want to be in a car alone with her at the moment, especially just after lying about lunch.

Back in the office, House sat at his desk, waiting.

(H/C)

By 12:45, House was really baffled. They were running out of time to put their plan into action. Could they have miscalculated the dose somehow? He picked up his cell phone and called Cuddy.

"Hi, Greg." She sounded distracted and worried.

"Hi. Just wanted to tell you I'm leaving, heading back home to meet the window company."

"Okay. I'll see you later on tonight."

He repeated it with a bit more emphasis, just in case she hadn't gotten the point. "I'll be driving home. I'm about to head down to the parking garage and get in my car right now."

She sounded puzzled. "All right. Be careful driving - it's starting to spit rain."

"See you at home later." He hung up, then sat there for another five minutes before getting up slowly, taking another few test ball bounces, then walking out.

This was inexplicable.

(H/C)

The girls were delighted to see House. So was Hawkins Windows, who arrived at 1:15 with bells on and with dollar signs in their eyes. They had sent three installers and set out replacing the window like they were being timed at the task. It was only 1:50 when they happily collected their large check and left.

House had spent the whole interval while they worked thinking. She hadn't tried to drug him? She wasn't going to force him to go to the funeral? It really had been his choice? He reran the events of the last two days again, trying for another differential. Cuddy had without question removed the fax cover sheet and deliberately destroyed it, keeping Blythe's idea from him. She also hadn't admitted this to him later, even with golden opportunities that should have reminded her. But apparently her concern this morning had really been concern, just as her coffee had really been coffee. Wilson was another story; Wilson definitely had been lying, or had felt that he was, during that lunch, but House suddenly wondered if this might be more due to something with Sandra - had she wanted to go to lunch maybe? - than with him.

Cuddy hadn't forced him to go. That was the central thought blazing like a bonfire in his mind, giving off both illumination and heat. Maybe she was trying, albeit with occasional cover sheet failures, to let him make his own decisions. Maybe his family honestly didn't require funerals from him to keep this happiness.

House wrote the check, not regretting the $1000. Knowing that Cuddy would not force him to another funeral was worth far more than $1000. He shut the door behind the window installers and then stood in the living room thinking. Rachel tugged at his pants leg, and he looked down at her.

His family. Perhaps they really did love him unconditionally, although part of him still wondered why.

He looked at his watch. It was 1:55. "Marina, I'm going back out, okay?"

"NO!" Rachel insisted, and Marina, coming from the kitchen with Abby in her arms, laughed.

House picked up Rachel, flinching a bit. "You're growing, kid. I'll be home later. You stay here and help Marina with things." He gave her a hug, then set her down, and Rachel, distracted by the idea of helping, started looking around for a task that needed her supervision. House touched Abby briefly, then made his escape while Rachel was looking the other way.

The rain was settling into a cold, hard, lashing cascade, perfect weather for a funeral. House drove to the church, then drove around the block three times, then parked up the block and sat there studying the building. All of the cars there. All of the people inside. He could feel his throat tightening up and his breathing accelerating just at the thought of walking in amongst them. All of John's predictions descended on him like a personal cloud, even colder and harsher than the one outside the car. House only realized that he was hyperventilating when he started getting dizzy, and he forced himself to breathe, fighting his father's voice, fighting the memories. His hands were shaking. He pushed one hand into his pocket, finding among all of his pill bottles the bottle of Ativan which Jensen had left with him, and he took one, then waited for a few minutes, sitting a block away from everybody else, watching them all from the outside. It felt like the story of his life. Part of him wanted to join them. A larger part knew that he could not handle it, not yet anyway. He wasn't strong enough.

_Just a weakling,_ John reminded him.

"Shut up, you bastard!" House shouted. He gave it another few minutes, feeling the Ativan working, then took his pulse. Still fast but better, as was his breathing. But he knew that going closer to that church would rev everything up once again.

In sudden defiance against both his father and himself, he started the car and resolutely drove past the church, heading to the cemetery. He drove around it, determining that there was only one funeral canopy set up, then parked well away from that site and away from the main roads in. In fact, he parked beside the backhoe, which was discretely tucked out of sight from what would be the scene of activity, ready to resume its job but hiding its harsh presence from their mournful eyes. People at funerals wanted to see the flowers, to hear the eulogies. Nobody wanted to see or to think about the backhoe. House looked at it, abandoned now as was most of the cemetery. No doubt the workers had gone somewhere to get out of the rain until needed. He squared his shoulders against the cold downpour and limped the long, lonely way through the cemetery back to the site of Thirteen's grave.

The seats were set up beneath the canopy, but he didn't sit down. The tent provided some shelter from the weather, at least. He stood beside the grave. Of course, it had the casket lowering mechanism on top of it and was safely capped, waiting for the hearse to arrive, but he could feel the presence of that hole waiting. Six feet of emptiness. He stood there wondering if he should say something. On the other hand, what could he say? No words would make any difference. "I'm sorry," he told the grave. That summed it up perfectly. He stood there for another several minutes, then came to himself and looked at his watch. They would be coming soon, the workers returning and the procession arriving from the church. Not wanting to see anyone, not wanting to ruin their grief with his presence, he left the sheltering tent, then limped a couple of hundred yards off to a large, concealing tree. Tucking himself behind it, propping himself against it, he stood concealed and watched them come.

Foreman looked thinner, shrunken somehow. He stood obviously trying to keep up a stoic front. Wilson had Sandra on one side and Cuddy on the other and was trying to hold an umbrella over all three of them as they walked from the Volvo to the pavilion, even though Cuddy the prepared had her own umbrella unopened at her side. She was allowing Wilson the act of caring at the moment. Kutner looked oddly solemn, studying the casket with a wistful expression, and House wondered if he was thinking of Thirteen or of his murdered parents. If his parents were intruding on Thirteen's ceremonies, as House had feared Amber would for him, Kutner at least seemed to have enough sorrow to expand to cover them all without leaving one out. Taub looked tight, controlled, and awkward. Thirteen's father, whom House had never met but whose identity was obvious, looked devastated, and there was no question watching him that his grief was for his long-dead wife as well as his daughter.

All of them stood there by the casket as he watched from the distant sidelines. The minister stood up, no doubt to say something that Thirteen herself would have ridiculed, and House suddenly couldn't take it anymore, not even removed from the scene of action. He turned too quickly, stumbled, and caught himself, his leg protesting. He recovered and limped off at full speed, not paying attention to direction, just wanting to get away from it all. His lame retreat had taken him a fair distance through the rain, well away from Thirteen's burial, when another grave caught his eye, a fairly recent grave, drawing his attention because of a few carved musical notes scattered around the edge of the tombstone. He paused to read.

Christopher Bellinger

Beloved Son

Gone too soon

House stared at the words. All at once, the flood of everything burst through the dam, and he fell painfully to his knees at Christopher's grave, unable to control his tears, suddenly glad of the cold rain that concealed them. He crouched there, shivering, remembering, grieving.

A dark shadow abruptly extended directly over him like a pterodactyl swooping up behind prey, and he spooked even before he felt the hands on his back and twisted around, hands raising helplessly to defend himself.

It wasn't a pterodactyl. Nor was it John. Dropping to her own knees beside him, holding an umbrella and trying to shelter both of them from the lashing storm, was Cuddy.


	45. Chapter 45

Cuddy had spotted House almost immediately upon arriving at the cemetery.

Not that he was being conspicuous; far from it. He was a couple of hundred yards away and hidden fairly well, and she didn't think anybody else in the group of mourners realized his presence. But she herself couldn't have missed him. He had always made her spine tingle, and though she might have occasionally missed out on his exact hiding place around the hospital over the years, she sensed when he was in her vicinity, especially when he was watching her.

She was delighted that he had come to the cemetery; even if it wasn't the full funeral, this was progress. He obviously didn't want to be noticed - hiding behind a tree made that clear enough - so she didn't draw any attention to him. Wilson, next to her, had no clue at all. Cuddy kept her eyes firmly on the casket and kept tabs on House only through peripheral vision. She noted with concern that he didn't have an umbrella, and he had to be getting drenched in all this, but leaving during the ceremony to scold him would only bring the attention he clearly was trying to avoid. So she stood there, the picture of a respectful mourner at the graveside, but in her mind, at the moment, Hadley was already buried. Her thoughts had room for only one focus.

Cuddy saw something in him snap, even at this distance, just as the graveside service was starting, and he abruptly spun, stumbled, slipped on the wet grass, and took off at his fastest limp in the opposite direction. This tipped the scales of concern versus respect for his privacy that had been teetering in her mind. Fortunately, she was in the second tier of people, not right in the front row, nor right behind Foreman or Hadley's father. Also fortunately, the weather had kept most people's mental as well as physical focus packed firmly underneath the canopy. Nobody else gave so much as a glance at the lonely, limping figure disappearing between the tombstones at a distance. Cuddy hissed very softly to Wilson, "Got to go. Don't react. I'll call you." She turned away and started to push through the crowd, murmuring soft apologies, putting up her own umbrella as she left the shelter of the canopy.

"Wha . . . " The puzzled oncologist started to turn to look at her, and Sandra elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"What part of don't react wasn't clear?" she whispered. She had no idea what urgent summons Cuddy had received, but as the next closest person besides Wilson, she had heard the message. "Eyes front, James." Wilson sighed and glued his eyes dutifully to the coffin, not turning to allow them to follow his boss.

It took Cuddy a while to catch up, first because he had about 200 yards head start, second because she was trying to not appear in a hurry and took a different line away from the group at first. In case anybody from the funeral had looked away, they would have only seen her walking at a professional clip toward the car, taking out her cell phone, giving all the visual indications of an administrator who had simply received an urgent message. It was only when she passed the Volvo that she changed course to intersect House's trajectory. Even then, she kept her pace steady, fiddling with the phone in her non umbrella hand as if trying to find the best reception. But the further she got from the graveside, the more her stride stretched out to swallow up the ground between them eagerly.

House hadn't noticed that he was being followed, and that itself spoke volumes. In fact, he clearly wasn't walking _toward_ anything specifically, simply bent on escaping what lay behind, no other destination. He was making good time in his high-speed retreat, but Cuddy, with two sound legs, was faster, and she was steadily closing the gap. She was within 75 feet of him when he paused, looking at one of the tombstones, then suddenly and completely collapsed, physically and emotionally. Cuddy shot one quick look over her shoulder; the graveside service was out of sight now in this large cemetery. Even as she looked back, she broke into a run.

He jumped even before she touched him and then spun around, hands raised in defense. Horror, relief, bewilderment. The emotions flashed across his tear-streaked face as quickly but as visibly as lightning. She dropped to her knees beside him, trying to shelter them with one hand, pulling him to her as tightly as she could with the other. "Greg," she murmured soothingly.

His entire body was shaking badly, whether from emotion or cold or both. She held him for several minutes until the sobs started to diminish, then gave another quick glance around. They were clear of the main funeral traffic, but this scene was bound to draw attention if anybody happened by. She knew how important his privacy was to him. "Greg?" she asked, a question that time. "We need to move, okay? Somebody might come by, and besides, we're going to freeze out here."

He pulled away slightly, studying her. The blue eyes ran her from head to the knees which were pressed into the soft ground of Christopher's grave. "You're getting your skirt muddy," he stated as if this sight were the eighth wonder of the world.

Cuddy shook her head. "You seriously think I care about that?" He looked like a drowned rat himself, absolutely drenched. Going swimming with his clothes on couldn't have done a better job of it, and he was still trembling, at least partly with cold now as well as emotion. He was wearing a coat, but it was as soaked as the rest of him by this point.

House looked around, suddenly alarmed. "Everybody else . . ." The usual embarrassment at showing so much emotion was gripping him.

"Nobody else saw you, and I left the group in a different direction at first. They don't know you're here."

The blue eyes met hers in pure gratitude. "Thank you."

Cuddy stood, careful to keep the umbrella over them, and reached down. "Come on, Greg. We need to get moving."

Climbing back up on his annoyed leg was difficult, but with her help, he managed it. She gave him a moment to catch his breath. Another quick look around revealed no gawkers, but for the first time she noticed the tombstone. "Christopher."

House rolled his still-reddened eyes. "Out of all the graves in this cemetery, I would trip across his."

She wrapped her arm around him, pulling him tightly up under the umbrella next to her, lending her support as well as her warmth. There was no car in sight. "How did you get here, Greg?"

"The car. It's down at the very end of the cemetery, beside the backhoe."

She shook her head. "You walked most of the way across the cemetery? In this rain? Without an umbrella?"

He shrugged. "Didn't want people to see the car. Didn't want to disturb their funeral."

To disturb their funeral, as if his mere presence would ruin it? She sighed and left that one alone for the moment. Practicality took the lead position right now; she had to get them out of here. If they'd had a second umbrella, she would have suggested that he wait for a few minutes while she hurried to retrieve the car, but she knew he would never keep their only one. He was still shivering badly. "We need to get you warmed up," she said. "And then, damn it, we need to talk about what just happened. I've tried to be patient and not to push you, but you aren't shutting me out this time."

He nodded, oddly compliant. "We definitely need to talk."

"Come on." She started off, carefully holding back her stride to match his. His leg was giving him hell, both from the wet cold and from his collapse at Christopher's grave, and the long, slow limp around to the car, while avoiding the region of Thirteen's grave, seemed to take an eternity. By the time they reached the vehicle, Cuddy was lending a lot more support, and he didn't resist when she held out her hand, simply producing and turning over his car keys. She helped him into the passenger's side, then got in herself. Starting the engine, she switched the heater on high, then pulled out her cell phone. "Wilson? I've found another ride back; just go on without me . . . Yes . . . None of your business. Go home with Sandra. . . _No, _I don't need your help right now. Go home and talk to her." She snapped the phone shut, frustrated, then looked over at House. His head was leaning against the back of the seat, his eyes closed, although the ghost of a smile hovered over his lips at her advice to Wilson. He was still shivering.

He felt her regard and opened his eyes. "Time to talk, I guess," he stated reluctantly. He definitely agreed with the need, but he still wasn't looking forward to it.

She shook her head. "I'll grant you a reprieve until you're neck deep in the hot tub. You look like an icicle."

He shuddered. "Feel like one, too. Bet you're glad this isn't your car I'm dripping all over."

"Greg?"

His eyes had fallen closed again, but he opened them to look at her. "What?"

"Shut up." Firmly, she put the car into gear and started home.

(H/C)

House leaned back in the hot tub, only his head above water. Whoever had invented these was a genius. He could feel himself thawing, could feel his leg easing, and he wondered briefly how long he could live in here without getting out. Cuddy would import food for him, and they could set up a speaker phone for communication with the team.

Cuddy opened the bathroom door and entered, closing it behind her. She had a steaming cup in one hand, which she extended to him. "Here's a present from Marina. She sent you a lot of other advice along with it, but I'm sure you can fill in the blanks."

"Easily." House had already had a full-scale lecture from Marina during his dripping limp from the front door to the bathroom. In a combination of Spanish and English, she had firmly expressed her opinion of the common sense and intelligence of anybody who would go out this afternoon extendedly into the weather without an umbrella, as well as predicting all sorts of resulting consequences. House grinned; he hadn't realized she cared enough to berate him. He took a sip of the hot coffee and flinched in surprise. It obviously had a slug of whiskey added to it.

"It's got a little extra in it," Cuddy confirmed, noting his expression. She sat down on the edge of the tub and studied him. He wasn't shivering any longer at least. "Are you feeling better?"

"Mmm hmmm." House took a longer sip of the coffee. "I nominate whoever invented hot tubs for a medal."

"Why didn't you have your umbrella?"

"Umbrellas are very unmacho. They destroy the image. Give me some credit; at least I took the car instead of the bike."

She rolled her eyes. "Pneumonia is more macho, I take it?"

"I'm not going to get pneumonia. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. I hate repeating myself; it's so unoriginal." He was sounding more like his usual self, but the eyes weren't joking. It was only a front for her sake. He abruptly caved at her worried expression. "I was just distracted, Lisa. I'll be okay. Hot tub is doing wonders." Cuddy sighed, and House echoed it. Time for a heart-to-heart conversation.

"Greg, I'm delighted that you decided to come to the funeral, or to the cemetery at least, but what happened out there?"

He studied her for a moment, fully serious now. "Get in," he requested abruptly.

"Why? I had on a waterproof coat instead of a plain one, had it buttoned up, and also had an umbrella. You aren't going to dodge out of talking by turning the subject to me, not this time." He looked away, and she realized a second later that whatever he had in mind, it wasn't a dodge. "Greg, why?" she asked, with a lot less sharpness in her tone.

"I . . . this would all be easier to admit to you if you were beside me instead of sitting on the outside spectating."

Without any further protest, she undressed and climbed into the tub, snuggling up next to him. "Admit what, Greg? I know something new has been on your mind since yesterday." He looked at her as if measuring something, clearly wanting to speak but still hesitating. "What is it, Greg?"

He broke eye contact abruptly, looking away as he did in moments of revelation. "I thought you were going to make me go. You and Wilson."

"I told you it was your choice."

"I know, but . . . I really believed you two meant to drug me and kidnap me again. I was expecting it all morning, your coffee, Wilson's lunch."

She felt the old guilt stab her. She supposed she couldn't blame him; with roles reversed, she probably would have been suspicious, too, in spite of reassurance. "Greg, I would _never_ do that to you again. It was wrong, even given that I didn't know about your father. It should have always been your choice, even then. I had no right to take that decision away from you." She trailed off as another thought sidetracked her. "Wait a minute. You really thought that coffee this morning was drugged?" He nodded. "Come to think of it, you did look exactly like a martyr being tied to the stake. But if you believed that, then why the hell did you just sit there and drink it anyway? I'd expect you to 'accidentally' knock it over or something."

He looked down, watching the jets bubbling in the water as if he were conducting a differential on them. "If . . . if that's what it took. . ."

"What _what_ took?"

"Staying with you and the girls."

Cuddy stared at him, absolutely dumbfounded. How the hell had he come up with a requirement to submit to drugging and kidnapping as a criterion for keeping his family? "Greg, look at me." He turned back to face her, almost reluctantly, afraid of seeing disappointment in her eyes. There was none, only an infinite sadness mixed with compassion. "Greg, there is _nothing_ that you have to do to stay with us. You aren't being tested to see if you're worthy to have a family. You already did _everything_ the girls or I will ever require of you when you said you loved me and that you loved them. That's it. We aren't going to change our minds and keep judging your performance. Although if we were judging it, which we aren't, you are a _wonderful_ husband and father."

The blue eyes were stunned at her testimony, although still a bit dubious, and she leaned over suddenly to kiss him, applying one of the weapons she had that John House could never compete with. She wondered how long it would take until he was truly convinced that he was worthy of love just for himself. Then she wondered why on earth she had taken so long in denying the obvious. Then she stopped thinking altogether for a few moments.

Finally, they broke apart. "I love you, Greg," she insisted. "I love _you_. You don't have to do anything else to keep that love." Still, knowing that he _would _have sacrificed his dignity and control for his family, seeing with fresh eyes his bravery when she had brought him the coffee this morning, warmed her clear through even more than the hot tub. "And I promise, I will never force you to another funeral."

His expression changed, another gear in his mind engaging. "I believe you - now."

"Then what are you thinking?"

He looked away again. He wished he could just luxuriate in her assurance and leave it there, but the question had to be asked. Unasked, it still lay between them, and he couldn't risk himself constructing more incorrect conclusions on its foundation. He forced himself to look back, meeting her eyes, needing to see her expression. "What did you do with the cover sheet to Mom's fax?"

"The cover sh . . ." She was confused momentarily, and then it all snapped together for her like the last piece fitting into a puzzle, completing the total picture. "Oh, damn. I'd totally forgotten about that. I had such an emotional reaction to reading those notes, by the end of that, I really didn't remember." The horrified guilt was sinking into her now. Her own almost automatic decision with that cover sheet had been the first link in the chain that led to his absolute belief that she was about to force him to another funeral. No wonder he'd questioned it, with fresh evidence that she was still hiding decisions on his behalf from him. "I should have told you, Greg. I apologize."

He hated himself for pushing this, but he had to. "Your reaction to the notes explains not mentioning it to me later. It doesn't explain removing it in the first place. That wasn't just an accident or distraction; you _took_ it. Deliberately."

It was her turn to look away. "I just . . . you had so much you were dealing with, and your mother said whatever her idea was might lead to another trial. I was trying to protect you." He was silent, and she looked back to him. "I apologize, Greg. I shouldn't have done that."

His blue eyes were absolutely serious but softening a bit now, too. "I don't mind you dismissing Mom's idea, although it's actually a good one. I mind you making that decision _and_ deciding to hide it from me."

"I know. It was wrong. I know I have a past history of this; I'm really trying to work on things. I apologize, Greg."

He looked away again, feeling again his own failure of the last two days. "I'm trying to work on things, too, but I can still take one decision under stress on your part and spin it into a whole plot that doesn't exist." He shook his head. "Sure you don't want to trade me?"

She pulled his head back around to face her. "I screwed up on this _first_, Greg. Don't blame yourself for it."

"But I screwed up _more._" They stared at each other for a moment, then suddenly both started laughing, realizing how absurd it was to be having a competition of errors. "Maybe we deserve each other after all."

She squeezed him tightly. "I think we do. Seriously, there's a big lesson for _both_ of us here, though."

"Communication," he agreed.

"Yes. Please, just ask me if you're wondering if I'm plotting against you. And _please_ bring it up, just as soon as you find out, if you think I'm taking decisions out of your hands again. I blew it. Give me a chance to fix my mistakes before you start building on them, okay?"

He considered, then nodded. "I'll try."

"I'll try harder, too. And again, I apologize. By the way, what was your mother's idea? I assume she called you for permission?"

"Yes. She met a retired PI at her senior center who once mentioned that Kentucky requires fingerprinting for PIs. She got the idea of filing a police report and having her notes printed, because whoever broke into the office would have had a hard time copying all of them with gloves."

Cuddy tilted her head. "That's actually not half bad. If there are fingerprints, and if it leads to a match in the database, there's no way around that."

"Right. Doesn't have to be a PI, even; maybe Patrick hired somebody with a prior record. But if we ID the person who broke in, he'll give Patrick up without a second thought to cut a better deal for himself."

She grinned. "I like it. Score one for your mother; I guess talking to people does yield dividends sometimes. It will mean another trial for you, though, if there are prints. A trial in Kentucky. The police will have to see the notes, too, and so would the court eventually and the jury. It would all be physical evidence."

He looked away. "I know. But it's a chance at another charge, a serious one, against Patrick. I told Lucas substitute felonies would be accepted; we'll take whatever we can pin on him. Hell, what do I care what the police and court system in Kentucky know about me anyway?"

She slid closer against him. "You've been so brave on several fronts the last few days, and I had no idea of some of them."

He looked back quickly, judging her sincerity. In fact, he was so startled by her calling him brave that he barely even noticed John's voice contradicting her. She smiled at his bewilderment. "Yes, Greg. You _are_ brave. You also proved it again today, trying to face down whatever memories you have with funerals."

His eyes fell again, studying the water. "I did go to the church, actually," he admitted. "Drove around it three times, then sat a block down the street and watched the cars in the parking lot, then had a full-fledged panic attack. I had to take Ativan. I just couldn't walk in there in front of the people. I wasn't strong enough."

She shook her head. "You didn't avoid the place totally. You were _trying_, Greg. You also obviously went to the cemetery after that."

He nodded. "I wanted to do _something_ for her, even if I couldn't face the people. I found her grave and then walked back to it after hiding the car, and I . . ." He trailed off with a quick, nervous glance toward her.

"You what, Greg?"

"I told her I was sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Greg. Remember the differential Jensen ran on that?"

"I know, but I still . . . I'm still sorry."

She hugged him again. "And _that_ is grief. Perfectly normal to feel that way. You just haven't had any practice at this. What happened back at the cemetery when you left your tree?"

"I just . . . couldn't take it anymore. Watching all of them. Then I happened to walk straight into Christopher's grave, and I . . ." He looked away, still embarrassed to remember how he had totally broken down. At least she had been the only witness.

"I know. You need to grieve for him, too. And for yourself, in a way. But Greg, it's okay to grieve. There isn't a right way or wrong way to do it."

He grinned suddenly. "According to you and Marina, it requires an umbrella."

"Okay, I'll modify that statement. When it's raining frozen cats and dogs, yes, it requires an umbrella. But other than that, there aren't rules." She studied him, suddenly remembering. "Back at Christopher's grave, you said you didn't want to disturb their funeral. What is it you think would have happened if you'd joined the group?" The question she now realized that she had never asked him. She'd encouraged him to go, but she had never explored why he was reluctant, just assuming that she knew the reasons, even as she had assumed incorrectly that she knew what was going on back at the time of his father's death.

He looked back at the far wall and took a deep breath. "I never went to a funeral before Dad's, but he would tell me that if I did, I'd ruin it, that everybody would look around and be finding fault with me instead of focusing on the other person. That was _precisely_ the reason he gave me for us never attending funerals, that he didn't want me to screw them up for the others." Cuddy felt the familiar fury rising. "He'd also talk about my funeral, and he said not one person would have anything positive to say. They'd all just pull out failures, over and over. I've even had nightmares about funerals sometimes." House shook his head as if to clear it, suddenly angry at himself. "I _know_ it was a pack of lies, but damn it, to hear it over and over, for years - I couldn't even get within a block of that funeral today without needing Ativan."

Cuddy hugged him, but she was quivering herself in repressed rage, and he felt it and looked over to meet her blazing eyes. "That absolute son-of-a-bitch. Greg, I apologize again for his funeral and also for pushing you so much the last few days to go to Hadley's when I didn't really know your reasons. Jensen himself told me he didn't think you were ready to go to one yet. I thought he was wrong. You ought to talk to him about today. He'd be proud of you for trying. _I'm _proud of you for trying."

He ducked away from the emotion, suddenly feeling exhausted mentally and physically. This conversation coming after this day had taken everything he had. "Hell, I got within a block," he said, trying for a lame joke. "Maybe one of these years I'll make it all the way to the parking lot."

She let him dodge, knowing he'd hit his limit. "Maybe so. We'd better get out. Marina will be leaving soon, and I prescribe a quiet evening with our family tonight, then going to bed early."

"Sounds like the right medicine to me." He started to push himself up, then hesitated. "What do you think are the odds that Wilson is also having some much-needed conversation over at his place?"

She shook her head. "50 to 1."

They were silent as they dried off and got dressed.


	46. Chapter 46

Wilson was fidgeting.

Sandra came back into the living room from the bathroom and sat down in the other chair primly, her feet flat on the floor, hands in her lap, facing him rather than curled up against him on the couch relaxed. She wanted to talk. Great. "James, are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm just worried," he replied, scrambling desperately and seizing on the massive alternative problem. Besides, that wasn't a lie. He really _was_ worried, imagining all sorts of things going on at House's tonight which needed his assistance. "House came to the cemetery, apparently."

"You said that in the car. I wondered why he wasn't at the funeral, but I guess he would have trouble facing Dr. Hadley since she was a defendant in that case, too. He's probably blaming himself." She shook her head. "Most of the hospital people hadn't expected him, just in general, not because it was Hadley. Foreman sure hadn't." The venom with which Foreman had said so had surprised her. "So he came but didn't want to be seen, and Cuddy went to join him, and they went home together. I know he's got a lot going on right now, but why would that specifically worry you? Sounds natural enough to me."

"He's got some bad history with funerals," Wilson stated.

Sandra's eyes softened. "Something his father did to him, you mean?"

"Not . . . exactly. I mean, it did involve his father, but . . ." He looked down, feeling guilty all over again for his role in the past.

"James, _what_ is bothering you?" Sandra was getting frustrated now.

Wait a minute, maybe this could be a test. Maybe he could analyze her forgiveness quotient, only when somebody else rather than her was the offended party. "Back when his father died a few years ago, House didn't want to go to the funeral."

She sighed. "Poor House. I can see where he wouldn't, based on what those papers said."

"The thing is, we didn't know about that yet, Cuddy and I. His mother called to ask me to help get him there to give a eulogy."

Sandra sat straight up, eyes flashing. "To give a _eulogy_? By the way, if things went on throughout his childhood, where exactly was his mother in all that?"

"With her head in the sand, apparently. She didn't know. She thought he was just clumsy. And rebellious, of course. She wanted him at the funeral to 'end the war,' as she put it."

Sandra was staring at him in disbelief. "End the war? She actually thought he had been responsible for their bad relationship?'

"At that point, yes, at least partly. She thought they both had rubbed each other the wrong way. She knows differently now. Anyway, she called and asked me to help her out, to encourage him to go. And I talked to Cuddy, and we . . ." He trailed off, guilt crashing over him in waves.

"You what?"

"Drugged him, kidnapped him, and took him anyway," Wilson admitted, blurting it out in one rapid-fire statement. She was silent for a moment, and he looked back to her quickly, gauging her reaction. It was a combination of disbelief and anger.

"You _drugged _him and forced him to go to his father's funeral?" He nodded. "And it never occurred to you to ask him first why he didn't want to go? That was his _parent_. There had to be a whole lot behind that decision."

Wilson shook his head. "We thought he was just being a jerk." He looked away, not liking how she was looking at him. "I apologized later, once I found out what his father had been."

"You apologized _later_? Not at the time, only later when you had more data? You didn't think kidnapping him in the first place was wrong?"

"It . . . it got us back together as friends, in a way, after Amber died. I was just relieved. Besides, he never brought it up again."

"He wouldn't." She shook her head. "He doesn't trust many people, and he's afraid of losing the few he does. He wouldn't want to make waves. Please tell me you went to him crawling on your knees in absolute humility and shame once you found out about his past."

"Basically, yes. I wrote him a letter. . ."

"You apologized by _letter_?"

"It was Jensen's idea. And it was a _good_ letter. Totally full of humility and shame; I'll let you read it sometime if you want to. Believe me, I apologized all over the place, for everything. And he accepted it, too, not that he said so, but he acknowledged it, in his way. But see, because of me and Cuddy, he's got bad associations with funerals now. They remind him of his father's, which reminds him of being forced to go. I'm amazed he came today at all. I'm just hoping he's okay tonight, that it hasn't reminded him of his father too much, which would bring back everything that happened when he was a kid."

Sandra was still somewhat shocked. He gave her a minute, watching her process this knowledge while trying not to look like he was. "That was completely wrong, you know. Whether or not you knew about his father."

"I know. I . . . Jensen says I have family shirking responsibility buttons, because of how mine never helped with Danny. The idea of him skipping a parent's funeral - and I didn't know why then - just hit one of my triggers. But it _was_ wrong, and I did apologize."

"And you've been in therapy for a good while since then. You are trying to work on things." She was softening up a bit, not excusing him but seeing the efforts since. "And he forgave you."

"You don't . . . mind?"

She gave him an odd look. "What do I have to do with what you put poor House through a few years ago? If you mean knowing that you're capable of sinking that low, it is a jolt, but like I said, you're working on things since then. That's good. And you did apologize, even if delayed."

"Would you have forgiven me?" he asked.

"Had to put myself in that situation. I remember my father's funeral very well, but he was a wonderful man, and nobody drugged and kidnapped me and forced me to go."

"What if they had? What if you were House? How would you react?"

She considered. "Boy, that's a tough one. How would _you_ have reacted, roles reversed?"

That unfortunately was something he'd thought about. "I would have told him to go to hell, escaped from the car at first chance on the drive down, and never spoken to him again," he admitted. He looked back up quickly to assess her opinion of that response.

She was chewing slightly on her lower lip, something she did when thinking. "Hard hypothetical to imagine, but _if_ you ever pulled something like that on me, I'd feel absolutely betrayed. I'd probably talk to you, though, not just slam the door and walk out first thing." Wilson felt the knot inside him start to unclench in a glimmer of hope. Unfortunately, she went on. "But you'd better have had a damn good apology and also a damn good reason, even if a wrong one, for having tried a stunt like that in the first place. And _then_ I'd have to think about it awhile and decide if risking you doing something to me like that again was worth it. I'm not sure what the final conclusion would be."

Wilson gulped and studied his shoes.

Sandra moved over to the couch and sat down against him, snuggling up this time. "I really wish you'd had today's appointment with Jensen. You need to talk things over with him; this has obviously reminded you of a lot of things in your past, too. You aren't just worried about House. It's a shame he didn't have another slot this week, but be sure to go next week, okay?"

"Next week is the day before Thanksgiving. He'll probably be in a hurry to get out of the office."

"Did he still have appointments?"

"Yes," the oncologist admitted.

"Then he should commit himself to fulfilling them. If you think Wednesday would be short-changed, I really feel you need to try to schedule another slot next week. This is bothering you, and you need to talk things out with him."

"I will," Wilson promised, feeling like his funeral tie was tightening around his neck. He quickly shrugged her arm off and got up, retrieving the take-out menus from the corner table. "So, Chinese tonight?"


	47. Chapter 47

A/N: Odd that a chapter with Wilson being a dodging coward gets twice as many reviews as one with House and Cuddy finally being open and honest. I'm not sure if that's a comment on subject or just on Thanksgiving weekend schedule weirdness or what. 45 was one of my favorite chapters in the story. Maybe everybody was just busy eating turkey. Anyway, we now return to Home Base, fanfic speaking, at the House residence for this chapter. Coming soon are updates on the investigations and on Foreman/House. Thanks for reading and enjoy 47!

(H/C)

Cuddy was standing in the nursery, watching her daughters sleep. Her own agitated mind had refused to let her stay in bed once House was asleep. The fact that the last two days had been a test of her actions and she hadn't even realized it rocked her. The girls calmed her, though. Such a routine, everyday picture of innocence and family. Such an antithesis to what John House had done his best - and failed, damn it; they were winning; they _would_ win - to use to crush all confidence and self-worth out of his son.

A sound from the bedroom pulled her out of her reverie, and she turned that way quickly. House's cell phone was ringing. She snatched it off the nightstand, answering quickly without looking at caller ID. Even though she didn't need to worry about disturbing him at this particular moment without a lot more than a phone ringing, the effort made _her_ feel better. "Hello?"

"Dr. Cuddy?" It was Jensen. "Is Dr. House there?"

"Yes, but he just went to bed."

"At 8:15?" She heard the concern rising in Jensen's voice. "Is he okay?"

"I hope so." She was suddenly too rattled herself by this day to keep up a front. She reached out to rest her hand on her husband's forehead. He wasn't running a fever, at least, but he had been utterly drained all evening after their hot tub conversation, his resources spent, and he, not the girls, was the one who had kept drifting off to sleep and stubbornly fighting it after dinner. "He had a tough day today, even worse than I'd expected. In fact, he did yesterday, too, only I didn't realize. He's just worn himself out at the moment. I hope."

Jensen really sounded worried now. "What happened?"

Cuddy sighed. She walked around to her side and sat down on the bed, legs stretched out along the mattress, keeping the phone in her left hand so she could touch House more easily. "I blew it," she stated, zeroing in on the center of guilt at the moment. She herself had made the last two days much worse for him.

Jensen, on his end, settled back in his study chair. He'd only meant to check on House briefly, but now he prepared himself for a session anyway, only with a substitute target. Cuddy sounded both guilty and frayed. She obviously needed to process some things herself. "What happened?" he repeated, switching into his inviting, "you can talk to me" tone.

Cuddy seized the invitation immediately. Yes, she definitely needed to talk, the psychiatrist thought, and she had few candidates with whom she could without violating House's privacy. "Blythe faxed her therapy notes to my office Monday morning, you know. She jotted down a quick note on the cover sheet to call her, because she had an idea she thought would help, only she didn't want to go ahead without permission because it might lead to another court case. That was all she said; no details. I ran the cover sheet through the shredder."

"And didn't tell him," Jensen filled in the blank.

"Exactly." Cuddy stroked House's hair in repeat apology. "I _know_ that was wrong. But he just had so much going on already, and I was annoyed with Blythe anyway. Whatever her idea was, I didn't see how it could have helped. I was just trying to protect him."

Jensen, on his end, was filling in blanks full speed. _This _had to be the reason House had gone down to Cuddy's office to read the therapy notes at a point when he knew she was about to leave. He must have found out about the fax cover sheet, probably from Blythe. He had wanted to give Cuddy a chance to come clean and then, assuming she didn't, to have an opportunity in her absence to search her office for the missing page in case it had just been misplaced. Jensen had known something significant about those notes was bothering his patient last night, more than just emotional reaction to them. House had thought Cuddy was reverting to old habits, but he also knew that he couldn't get by without her support in this crisis, which conclusion was only emphasized when she came back later to check on him and he _had_ urgently needed her at that point. He must have felt totally trapped into a position where he had to sacrifice independence and control in order to have the emotional support of his family. "He found out," Jensen stated. Not a question.

"Yes. He found out yesterday, and I didn't even realize it. Because _I'd_ totally forgotten it. Those notes . . . maybe he'll let you read them Friday, but it's an eye opener. They're powerful. I was crying in my private bathroom for several minutes after I read them. He totally broke down after _he_ read them yesterday, and he already knew it all. But my reaction after reading knocked the fax cover sheet clear out of my mind, and when he was trying to fish around that subject yesterday, to give me a chance, I didn't even pick up on it. Only _he_ thought I was still deliberately deceiving him." She could feel tears welling up again and blinked them back. "And then he just _took _it. He decided that I was stage managing his whole life again, and he thought he had to play along. So he concluded yesterday that if I'd done this, I must be planning to drug him and kidnap him again and force him to go to the funeral."

Jensen sighed. "And he just submitted to that idea instead of asking you or saying anything."

"He _did_ try to talk to me about the fax sheet, without asking me right out, of course, but he was laying it wide open for me to tell him if I'd remembered the thing even existed. With the funeral, no, he didn't say a word. He actually sat there this morning in his office when I brought him a cup of his favorite coffee from Starbuck's, and he just drank it. No resistance at all. I could tell something was bothering him, but he wouldn't talk. He really thought - he said so later - that he had to put up with being drugged for me to let him stay with his family. He'd decided this was just going to happen sometimes, and if he made any waves, I'd ditch him." She shook her head. "How is it possible to have that little self-esteem?"

"You start out with a monster and an ostrich for parents," Jensen replied, and again she heard the glistening razor edge of anger appear briefly under his voice. "You said he admitted this to you. So you two have thoroughly talked through things?"

"Yes, eventually. A lot else happened first, though." She sighed and again ran a hand along House's hair. "I should have kept reassuring him all week, over and over, that I wouldn't ever force him to go to a funeral again. It's been bothering _me_ this week, totally apart from the fax sheet - I never connected those two things like he did. But if it was on _my_ mind, how could I have missed that John's funeral would be bothering _him_? He never said anything, but he wouldn't. But no, instead, I kept encouraging him to go to Hadley's funeral every chance I had. I never left the subject alone. What did I expect him to think?" She shook her head again, disgusted with her lack of insight.

"What else happened today?" Jensen prompted patiently, trying to nudge her out of the guilt fest.

"He believed we were going to drug him. He thought Wilson was in on it too, of course, fair guess after last time. Everything we did - me bringing him coffee, Wilson bringing him lunch - he thought that was it, and he still took it all and just waited. Apparently, he wasn't really sure we were leaving it up to him until the window installers were here - that appointment was this afternoon, by the way. I haven't asked them, but I'm sure he requested it this afternoon to manufacture a funeral excuse."

Jensen was suddenly gripped by the absurdity of Wilson using a funeral _as_ an excuse to get out of an appointment while House was fishing for an appointment to help him avoid the same funeral. Wilson still hadn't answered the phone the one time Jensen tried calling him today. He'd back off on Wilson for the moment; the oncologist wouldn't be able to find any peace with himself right now, and Sandra should pick up on that and assist in booting him back to sessions. Or she could lead him to confessing to her, but Jensen thought Wilson would dodge as long as possible, although he hoped he was wrong. "So Dr. House admitted his fears after that, once he saw you again?"

"No, actually. He tried to go."

Jensen sat straight up in his chair, all thoughts of Wilson gone immediately from his mind. "Really? I'm impressed. I know how hard even an attempt was to him."

"I am, too, after he explained some things later. You know, I have never tried to ask him, at John's or with this one, why he didn't want to go to funerals. I just assumed I knew the reasons. Do you know what that bastard had told him about funerals?"

"Yes. What happened at the funeral?" Jensen asked, patiently nudging her back once again from guilt into narrative.

"He got there late, drove around the block a few times, sat up the block and looked at the cars, and then had a panic attack." Cuddy sighed. "He said he took Ativan. You gave him some to keep? He hadn't mentioned that."

"Yes. I thought he might need it again going through all of this. Still, approaching the funeral, even if he didn't go in, is progress."

"I was trying to tell him that. He decided after a bit to go to the cemetery instead, only he didn't want anybody to see him so he wouldn't ruin their grief." She gritted her teeth thinking of John again. "So he parked way at the far end with the backhoe and then walked back to Hadley's grave. This was before everybody got there, understand; we were still back at the church. But it was raining hard by then, temperature in the low 30s, and he didn't take an umbrella. By the time I caught up to him a good while later, he was just about frozen solid."

Jensen sighed. "This is sounding familiar suddenly."

"I know. Anyway, he stood there at her grave for a while. He said he told her he was sorry - yes, using that word. Then he left the canopy and went off a few hundred yards to hide behind a tree and watch the graveside service. That's where I saw him once we got there. Nobody else did, though; he was trying to be invisible. Everybody got there, and the minister was just starting to speak when Greg hit the limit on watching this, and he spun around and took off as fast as he could. I went after him then, only it took a while to catch him, because I walked another direction first, so people wouldn't know. It was still pouring all this time. I'd almost caught up with him when he happened to walk accidentally into Christopher's grave while trying to get away from everything."

Jensen closed his eyes and ran his hand over them. "I think you're right. He's lived in a pinball game; he has the worst luck at times of anybody I've met. He totally collapsed at that point, I take it?"

"Yes. He was just huddled on the ground _sobbing_. It was awful. I went running up to try to help him, and he whipped around and for just a second looked like he thought I was going to attack him. He settled down once he recognized me, but I got the impression he was actually expecting the ghost of John or something." She couldn't forget House's expression as he had first turned. He had looked like he was trapped in a horror movie.

"Hardly surprising, given that he was in a cemetery with the ghosts of everybody else lately refusing to leave him alone. Did he let you help him?"

"Yes. I held him for a long time until he stopped crying, but he was just shaking even then."

"Did anybody else see this?"

"No. We were well out of sight. It's a large cemetery."

Jensen gave a sigh of relief. "Good."

"Yes, that would have been the last straw for him. Soon as he'd settled down enough, I got him up, but it took forever to walk around to the car. We were still avoiding people; we couldn't go straight across. I took him home and thawed him out in the hot tub, and that's when we finally talked." She reached out to brush a hand across House's forehead again.

"Hopefully he won't get pneumonia this time," Jensen said. "You weren't able to get him totally warmed up like that last time, correct?"

"Yes. And as bad as today was, he was out on my front steps a lot longer last year. I hope he's okay. Marina gave him quite a lecture, too; maybe his body won't want to give her the satisfaction of being right. He's had pneumonia multiple times in the past, even though he made a joke this afternoon about hating to repeat himself. He's got a bit of a tendency to it because of the Vicodin. He's not running a fever now, but he seemed absolutely wiped out the rest of the night. He was fighting to stay awake to play with the girls. I swear, one sniffle the next few days, and I'm hitting him with antibiotics that second and making sure he actually takes them. We'll go straight to the big guns, too. He's got enough else to deal with without getting sick."

"Hopefully he's just emotionally exhausted. His day certainly would justify it."

Cuddy sighed again. "I can't believe how absolutely blind I was. Of _course_ he would be thinking about us forcing him to John's funeral. Not to mention if I'd thought for five seconds before forgetting the thing entirely, I would have realized that shredding a note from Blythe isn't going to keep her from bringing the same thing up again the next chance she gets. There's no way I could have kept her idea from him. But I swear, I might have taken that cover sheet, but I _never_ considered drugging and kidnapping him again for this funeral."

"If it's any consolation, Dr. Cuddy, you have given him a far stronger lesson today by your actions - or your _non_-actions - than anything you possibly could have told him. I think we can successfully strike that point off the list entirely. He will never again think you are going to drug him and force him to a funeral."

Cuddy shook her head, refusing to accept comfort. "I'm the one who gave him the whole idea in the first place; he only thought of it because I actually had done it. That was inexcusable, even if I didn't know about John then. So I started all this."

"Don't take too much credit for yourself," Jensen pointed out. "His _father_ started all of this. Without his abuse and without his brainwashing, Dr. House would have had no problem going to his funeral in the first place. The only thing _you_ started was the thought that he might be drugged and forced there, which I agree was inexcusable, _but_ the fact that you started that makes it entirely appropriate that today, you also ended it. Full circle, and that specific issue for him is finished. He has enough ongoing problems to deal with; don't keep focusing on the one that you two just won a complete victory over." Cuddy was silent for a moment, and Jensen tried to change the subject slightly. "You said you talked through everything. Do you think he was being completely honest in that conversation or still holding back?"

She sounded a bit distracted, still fighting to climb out of the forced-to-funerals rut. "He was as open as I have ever seen him. I really think he wanted to get things resolved with me. I didn't even realize how much of a part I'd been at first, but he was pretty clear on what had involved me. He admitted what he was thinking today about the funeral, and then he asked me about the fax cover sheet, which I'd forgotten."

Jensen came to attention. "In that order? First discussed being forced to funerals, then asked you about the fax?"

He got her full attention there, if only due to confusion. "Yes. What difference does the order make?"

"He didn't have to ask you about the fax sheet with it that way. Your prior actions alone were enough cause to worry about the funeral; he could have just accepted reassurance on that point and not questioned you about the other. He was pushing on to try to get all misunderstandings and secrets between you out in the open. That's excellent."

Cuddy looked over at House. "You mean he was feeling more confident about his family, that he wasn't as much afraid of upsetting me and getting the boot?"

"Partly, yes. I'm sure your reassurance about the funeral, and of course your actions in not drugging him, helped him feel a lot more secure. But it sounds like he realized that something hidden between the two of you, even if not mentioned, can grow into far larger things. He didn't want to risk that again. Even if it upset you, it was better to deal with it as soon as possible."

Cuddy grinned suddenly. "Maybe he can give Wilson some lessons in that."

She heard the answering smile in Jensen's voice. "If I thought that would work, I'd suggest it to him. I'm afraid Dr. Wilson will have to come to that conclusion on his own, not vicariously."

Cuddy's smile faded. "I'm afraid so, too. That's one thing; at least I've had a little bit of company at making things even harder. Wilson took his turn Monday night. Poor Greg; we really haven't helped him much this week." She stroked House's hair.

Jensen sat straight up in his chair. "What did Dr. Wilson do Monday night?" He forced his voice to stay level, not giving any indication of his thoughts.

"Greg had asked me last Friday morning, before everything went nuts, if we could invite Wilson and Sandra over to Thanksgiving dinner. He wanted to cheer Wilson up; he knew his brother was bothering him and that he'd had a rough visit. But with everything that blew up right after that, Greg never thought of it or had a chance until after they left your place Monday. He asked Wilson then, and Wilson decided this was a comment on his inability to even take his girlfriend out to dinner successfully because he was a lying, cheating weasel. Not that he called himself that; he was still dragging out a long list of excuses, but you get the idea. He thought Greg was trying to make his failure more obvious, and he laid into him."

Jensen closed his eyes. He'd known Wilson was frustrated when he left that night; he'd just hoped his threat would continue to work. Which it apparently had, but Wilson had figured out a way to upset House after all. "What did Dr. House do?"

"He dropped it. I guess he was too worn out and hurting after riding in the car all day to feel up to a good argument. He gave Wilson a suggestion what to do with himself and then just stopped talking, and he eventually fell asleep. Then I called to get an ETA, and Wilson grabbed Greg's cell phone. He started into me, too, because he thought we were both plotting this together to rub our successful family in his face after he had cheated. I really ripped him a new one." Cuddy grinned again, remembering it. The oncologist had been very wary around her the last few days.

Jensen opened his eyes. "Did he apologize to Dr. House?"

"Yes. I asked Greg later. I insisted that he apologize to him, and I also told Wilson that if he makes any waves at all or gives Greg a hard time right now, no matter what it's about, he doesn't have to worry about being fired, because I'll kill him."

That ought to keep Wilson in line, at least with House, Jensen thought. A moment's sympathy for Wilson flashed through his mind. Cuddy on the warpath versus Wilson was very much an unequal contest. This threat would be far more effective than his own, not to mention more versatile, covering many different situations. "I'm glad you got that point made thoroughly. He hasn't done anything to upset Dr. House the rest of the week?"

"Not that I know of, and I just saw him this afternoon at the funeral. He couldn't hide from me on this after what I said to him. Greg thought he was trying to drug him with lunch today, but he wasn't really." Her thoughts returned like a homing pigeon to base. "Of course, Greg only thought that because I drugged him last time."

"Leave it," Jensen insisted. "Remember what I said. Don't steal the victory you got today by refusing to forgive yourself; he needs every single victory he can get at the moment. That issue, for him, is truly over. Don't dig it back up to start chewing on it again."

Cuddy touched her husband again. "I just feel like I've been taking a test, and I didn't even realize there was one. What if I'd . . . I don't know, done _something_ without realizing that was unintentionally the wrong thing?"

"Unannounced tests are the best type, really. You don't have a chance to worry beforehand, and _he_ doesn't have any chance to doubt the validity of your answers. They're not based on a cramming session; they really are an accurate indication of your knowledge. And Dr. Cuddy, don't lose sight of the fact that you passed it. It's okay."

"I still shouldn't have taken that fax sheet."

"No, you shouldn't have. You made a mistake; you're only human. But he understands now why you did that. Right?"

"I . . . think so."

"And he'll forgive you, as long as he knows that's _all_ that you did. It was the funeral question that would have bothered him more. Do you think you two talked out everything between you this afternoon?"

"Yes, but I still . . ."

"Then let it _go_. Don't hang onto it; he won't. Focus on the true enemy right now, who is Patrick."

"I'll . . . I'll try." Cuddy suddenly realized how long they'd been talking. "I'd better let you go. I'm keeping you from your family."

Jensen let her retreat, re-establishing boundaries. She wasn't used to talking like this, although he hoped that it had helped her tonight. "Yes, I do need to go. Just remember, Dr. Cuddy, today was a victory. It will be good for him. Everything turned out all right - assuming he didn't make himself sick, but even if he did, you'll be right on top of that this time."

"Thank you," she said a bit shakily. "For everything."

"You're welcome. Go to bed early yourself; it sounds like you've also had a tough day."

She did feel exhausted, now that she thought about it. Maybe she could sleep now. "I think I will. Good night."

"Good night." Jensen hung up, and Cuddy sat there watching House for a moment, then got up to check the girls.

Returning a few minutes later, she switched on the monitor, switched off the light, and slid down under the covers, snuggling up close to her husband. "Today was a victory, Greg," she told him, trying to remind herself, fighting to leave the guilt buried along with her actions about John's funeral. It was over. _This_, at least, was permanently over. Jensen had said so.

A victory. They would win eventually, against Patrick, against John.

She drifted off to sleep, her hand intertwined firmly with House's, holding on, never letting go.


	48. Chapter 48

House and Cuddy entered PPTH together and on time the next morning. "You're ruining my reputation," he quipped as heads turned around the lobby.

Cuddy grinned, glad that he was making a joke about people looking at him. "If it makes you feel better, I promise to spread the word that I left my car here yesterday, so I had to ride in with you."

"We could've both been late," he countered.

"You've got a case, remember?" She knew he did. He had been eager to get here himself this morning, looking forward to further work on his current puzzle. A puzzle trumped society in general's opinions with House, even in the current crisis.

They got to the receptionist's desk and picked up messages - none for House this morning - and then Cuddy walked off a few feet out of earshot toward the elevator and turned to him. Their bodies weren't touching, but their souls were. "Call me if you need me," she said softly. "Or if you think I'm plotting against you, okay?"

He nodded, momentarily serious. "I will." He turned and headed for the elevator, and she watched him for a moment, then turned toward her office to her own day.

"Dr. Cuddy," her assistant said, "Reginald Travis has called already this morning."

"Did you relay my message about picking a time next week for a conference?"

"Yes, I did. He sounded pretty persistent."

She sighed. "I'll call him. Thank you." She entered her office, picked up the phone, and dialed.

The lawyer's oily tones came on the line. "Dr. Cuddy, I've been trying . . ."

"Dr. Cuddy-_House_."

"Yes, forgive me, Dr. Cuddy-House, I tried to call several times yesterday."

"I apologize; I was at a funeral. I have a meeting in three minutes, Mr. Travis, so I'm afraid I can't prolong this conversation. My assistant has been trying to set up a conference at the beginning of next week. Would Monday or Tuesday work better for you?" There was no meeting in three minutes, but Cuddy wanted to sound as busy as possible.

"We would really prefer to meet as soon as possible to discuss settlement."

"I've already made it clear that we will not consider settlement. There's no need; this entire case is a waste of time. You have no grounds, and the courts should dismiss it in short order." Cuddy's tone couldn't have been more disinterested. "I have to leave momentarily, Mr. Travis. Monday or Tuesday?"

Travis sounded utterly baffled and trying not to. "Which works better for Dr. House?"

"I told you, Dr. House will not be joining us. He is busy on important matters of patient care. Monday or Tuesday?" Hopefully neither, she thought, because surely Lucas or the Kentucky police would come up with _something_ by then.

"Wouldn't you like to get this all cleared up sooner?"

"Unfortunately, you failed to consult my schedule before filing a frivolous lawsuit. This is already a busy week with more important matters of hospital business. I'm afraid I must go, Mr. Travis; please let my secretary know whether you prefer Monday or Tuesday. I could do 10:00 or 11:00, either day. Goodbye." Cuddy hung up with a wide grin. She could almost see the huge question mark coming out of the receiver. Travis couldn't understand her lack of reaction. She spent a few minutes imagining Patrick's similar bewilderment, then pulled a stack of budget requests over and started her day's work.

Up on the fourth floor, House got off the elevator. He was feeling much better this morning, the relief of Cuddy's non-drugging of him buoying up his spirits. He nearly walked straight into Andrews, who had been approaching the elevator from the hall. "Good morning," House said, almost cheerfully, before he remembered that he rarely said good morning. He settled willingly into his own round of confuse-the-enemy.

Andrews studied him. "Good morning. I didn't see you at the funeral yesterday."

"Didn't go."

"You'd left the hospital after noon. You went somewhere."

House cocked his head. "Why Andrews, I didn't know you cared. My own personal stalker; I feel so privileged. Hate to have to tell you, but I'm taken, and besides, I don't swing that way." He twisted his wedding ring while giving a devilish grin, enjoying watching the other man's face turn red in embarrassment. A physician's assistant and a nurse had been walking by and both stopped to watch, and House, who had noticed them before Andrews, had raised his voice a bit.

"I . . .um. . . that's not. . ." Andrews was sputtering. He wasn't in Patrick's class, House thought disparagingly. "I just . . . I would have expected you to be at the funeral. She worked with you." The elevator opened behind them while he was speaking, but House didn't take his eyes off his target to turn to check the latest addition to the audience.

House shrugged. "_Worked_. Past tense. I had an appointment with a window installer at my house; that's where I was yesterday afternoon, if you really want to know, getting a broken window replaced because the weather was turning. Things that can be fixed trump people who are already dead." The nurse shook her head in disgust and walked off, and House wondered how many people she would tell what a jerk he was. Hopefully several, sending that counterwave against any possible pity.

Andrews was floundering. House seemed almost jaunty this morning, in a good mood even. None of this made sense. "I just . . . she worked with you. Don't you think you should have paid your respects?"

House shrugged. "What on earth difference would it make to her at this stage? She's _dead_. Finished, checked out, quit the game. She doesn't care what I do anymore. Well, much as I'm enjoying this conversation, I've got to go. Got a patient and all. People who are alive get priority." He diverted around Andrews and headed for the conference room. Footsteps closed the gap behind him, heavy footsteps, almost sounding like John's for a moment, and he forced himself not to flinch as he turned. That wasn't Andrews. Andrews' step couldn't have been that decisive and annoyed if he had practiced it for a week first.

It was Foreman. He looked polished, professional, and furious, his eyes glittering.

Oh, _hell_. House replayed the last bits of that conversation. Foreman must have been the one coming off the elevator right at the worst possible moment. House opened the conference room door and went on in, speaking to Foreman over his shoulder. "Didn't expect you here this morning. You can have more time off, you know."

Foreman had considered that, actually, but he knew after returning from the funeral last night, sitting around their apartment - _his_ apartment - with nothing to do and nothing to plan now, that he would go crazy without a task. He'd come in this morning half expecting to be fired, but he had to know where his job stood before searching for another. He'd spent all week so far wrestling with guilt - mostly his own, not House's - and this morning, he'd only wished for things to start to get back to normal. Working would at least keep him occupied, and he knew he would have trouble being hired at another hospital. He'd been down that road before. Maybe he could tolerate House a little longer while examining his professional prospects on the side.

Then he had walked off the elevator right into the middle of Andrews castigating House for not coming to the funeral and respecting his former fellow, and House dismissing Thirteen and her death as unimportant, and all of his fury flared back up. He may have led to his girlfriend's death, but House could at least _care_, damn it. House had contributed, too. He knew his boss was a jerk, had been preparing himself to deal with that, but he hadn't realized he was quite that much of a coldhearted bastard. Not going to the funeral had almost been expected; belittling her death and ranking windows as more important had not.

Kutner and Taub had been sitting at the conference table, but both stood up as Foreman entered. "Hey, man. You okay?" Kutner walked around the table to shake hands. Taub nodded awkwardly, but the gesture was there. They at least had sympathy and recognition of his loss.

"Fine. I . . . needed to get back to work." Foreman was still glaring at House, suddenly unsure that he could work with him even briefly.

House poured a cup of coffee, trying to look normal in front of the fellows. "Kutner, Taub, go get a complete new set of lab work on our patient this morning. Foreman, my office." He walked through the adjoining door without waiting for a reply.

Foreman followed with an eagerness that bothered Kutner, and the young doctor held back as he and Taub exited. Kutner tucked himself just around the corner in the hall, trying to peer surreptitiously at a distance through the open blinds and keep an eye on things. Taub hesitated, then shrugged. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know. Just don't let House see you. I'll be in the lab."

Kutner nodded. He wasn't curious; he was _worried. _Taub, of course, did not know that Foreman had actually attacked House Friday night. Kutner could still remember the way Foreman had kept struggling to get back to his victim, to continue kicking House in his bad leg when the older man was already down. Somebody needed to keep an eye on things, and Kutner nominated himself.

In the office, House sat down at his desk and indicated the chair across the polished surface. "Sit down," he said. Foreman just stood there, looking at his boss. "Foreman, I'm sorry about Hadley." His tone was absolutely sincere, and it was the first time Foreman could remember House referring to her by name. Hell, he'd doubted that House even _knew_ her name.

The sincerity, a rarely seen expression for House, gave Foreman pause, but he couldn't forget what he'd just overheard. "Yeah, it really sounded like it a minute ago."

House shook his head. "What you heard was . . . a move in a chess match. It had nothing to do with Hadley, believe it or not. And actually, I did go to the cemetery."

Foreman looked dubious. "I was _there_, House. Sure didn't see you."

"I was behind a tree a little way off. I . . . thought I might ruin the mood for you if you saw me."

Foreman was scrambling, trying to fit a sincere and apparently sincerely apologetic House into his world view. It wouldn't fit. "You were at a window installation appointment. You said so. You thought _that_ was more important."

"I was at a window installation appointment, but they were done by 1:50. I _did_ go to the cemetery, got there before the rest of you and had a . . . had a word with her, then went off to watch from a distance." Foreman studied him, saying nothing. "You want to call the window company and ask them what time they left?" House regretted it the moment after he offered, because Foreman finding out about the extra $1000 for a 2:00 p.m. appointment sure wouldn't help matters.

Foreman fortunately didn't take him up on it. Unable to wrap his head around what was going on with House and yesterday, he dodged off into work. "I'm _not_ going to apologize. But I came in so you could fire me."

House shook his head. "I'm not going to fire you."

Confusion warred against the still-burning anger. "Why on earth not?"

"You're a good neurologist," House replied. "Besides, you were drunk. Do you even remember that?"

Foreman paced a circle, recalling his desperate and failed attempt Friday to escape everything by sailing away on the sea of alcohol. "No," he admitted. "Kutner told me, though. Look, House, what kind of screwed-up game are you playing here? Remy isn't a . . . a _pawn_ in a chess match, as you called it. Neither am I. Either fire me and get it over with, or let me go back to work."

House sighed. This business of trying to be sincere was worse than a differential on a challenging patient. "Foreman, we are _all_ pawns in a chess match at the moment. The only choice we have is quitting the game."

"Like she did, you mean." Foreman hit the end of the office, spun, and paced back. "What the hell is going on with that case, anyway?"

House abruptly hit the limit. He couldn't deal with this anymore. "Go back to work, Foreman. I at least am not stopping you."

Foreman stopped and studied his boss. House suddenly looked older, tired. "It's true, isn't it?" he asked.

House picked up his thinking ball and rolled it lightly between his hands, not tossing it. He didn't look at Foreman. "Go back to work," he repeated.

"So you _were_ distracted on that case."

Anger flared up, and House's blue eyes raised to meet his. "The kid had West Nile encephalitis, Foreman. You're a neurologist. You tell me where we blew the treatment on that one or where we could have changed anything."

Foreman was stuck in a tug-of-war between his resentment and an unexpected flash of sympathy. Odd that House's initial sincere condolences had left him skeptical, but House's anger suddenly left him sympathetic. He didn't like it. He didn't _want_ to be sympathetic. "Nowhere," he admitted.

House's eyes returned to his ball. "Get back to work," he said.

Foreman studied the diagnostician for a moment, then abruptly spun on his heel and left the office. House sat there at his desk, head down, studying the ball. He didn't toss it. His hands were shaking slightly.

The door from the conference room opened, and he turned to see Kutner. "Enjoy the movie?" he asked.

Kutner gave a disarming shrug. He should have known House would spot him out in the hall, though Foreman had not. "I wasn't trying to enjoy it," he replied. "I just . . .um . . . forgot what you'd told us to do."

House shook his head. "You're an awful liar, Kutner. Don't quit your day job to go into espionage. I'm _fine_. Now scram."

Kutner studied him for a moment, then nodded and withdrew.

House sat in his chair, studying the ball. His desk phone rang, and he took one glance at caller ID and then turned off the answering machine, simply letting it ring. It was the lawyer. Eventually the man gave up.

Five minutes later, his cell phone rang, and he pulled it out cautiously to check - although the lawyer shouldn't have that number. Not the lawyer. It was Lucas.

House answered.


	49. Chapter 49

Very short update, but take what you can. Busy day today, and this was all I had time for. This chapter is a different format, but what's going on should be obvious. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

(H/C)

"It doesn't make sense. I'm telling you, he seems just like he usually does."

"Are you sure? He's _got _to be affected by this somehow. Everybody knows his secrets, and he's not sure how; there's no way that plan could fail. He should be tying himself in a knot. You're sure you got the papers out correctly to everybody? You didn't just give it to his team?"

"I know the word is out; it's the primary topic on the hospital grapevine, this and Hadley."

"And are people giving him a hard time everywhere he goes?"

"Well . . ."

"Answer the question."

"Not too many. A lot of them don't believe it, and a lot of the ones left are afraid of him. He is notorious around here. It's like volunteering to jump into a lion's den."

"What about you? Are you pushing him?"

"I'm . . .I've brought up Hadley a couple of times now."

"Only _Hadley_? She was just an accident; focus on the better parts. Are you doing your job, or aren't you? You're supposed to be watching him _and_ needling him."

"Well, I'm trying, but if not many other people are doing it, I don't want to stick out. That's too suspicious. We don't want them to know I put those papers up."

"You're pathetic, you know it? You're even worse than he is. You could have used a strict father yourself, to toughen you up."

"Strict? That . . ."

"Yes, strict. His dad was doing him a favor. You said he's a sarcastic asshole. Just remember all the times he's cut you down publicly at the hospital. Can you imagine trying to deal with him as a kid? No wonder his dad had to get rough; man probably deserves a medal for putting up with him as a son. You know what happens if you try to weasel out on me now, Andrews? I didn't hear you. You know what happens?"

"What?"

"I might have to correct your father's omissions. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Speak up."

"Yes, sir."

"Geez, I can see why your father didn't even bother to discipline you. You just roll over. Not worth wasting time on. Okay, you said the hospital doesn't believe those papers?"

"A lot of them don't. Sir."

"That's the problem, then; easy for him to ignore people who aren't making themselves obvious. What we need to do is give them proof. Cuddy's trying to keep Travis away from him, but she can't run interference on everything. If everybody else at the hospital isn't doing their jobs of making life hard for him, I'm about to correct that. They need a first-hand demonstration, something they can't doubt, and when they see it, nobody's going to be afraid of him any more. They'll finally see him for what he really is, and they'll be just as disgusted as I am. He's weak. He'll crumble. They'll be all over him once they accept the truth. I'm going to pick up a package, and I'll meet you tonight at the park at 9:00 p.m."

"I'm not sure I can make that. I had plans at home."

"I'd recommend adjusting your schedule. I'm not afraid of adjusting mine. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"What a wimp. Just remember, Andrews, you can't possibly back out now. You're already in too deep. The only way out is to keep cooperating with me, because I _will_ stomp you like a bug if you don't. Now, I'll meet you tonight, and then tomorrow, you get in early and . . . "


	50. Chapter 50

A/N: This SHOULD be another busy day at work, but the $%^* server is down again. When it comes back up, I'll be 10 hours behind due to server blips this week (work week ends Sunday midnight), plus usual shifts, so don't expect much this weekend, hopefully. If I can work, I'll be working. On the other hand, sitting here pinging the thing every 5 minutes is good writing time, even if I'm not earning my salary at the moment.

Thanks for the reviews! I think they are almost as good as pay. Wish my bills agreed with me on that. :) Enjoy 50.

(H/C)

Lucas' usually boyish, innocent voice sounded entirely serious. For one of the first times since House had known him, there was not a hint of the PI's charade to the public. House had no doubt that Lucas was smarter and more world wise than he appeared, but Lucas normally made a living by keeping those facts hidden. "House. Got an interim update for you."

House sat up straighter, and now he started tossing the ball that he had only been fiddling with earlier. The rhythm and the control over it steadied him. "What have you got?"

"I'm in the airport right now, got a flight booked to Detroit."

"Nobody's listening, right?"

"Relax. Give me a little credit. I'm off in a corner. Chandler has been in Princeton for about three months living with Ann Bellinger at the address you gave me." Lucas hesitated. "Found the pending court case in a search of public records." His voice, already serious, softened up a little bit more, and House immediately shot a flaming arrow across the path of any potential pity, trying to scorch it out of existence.

"Already knew about that myself. I didn't need to hire a PI for it. Either do your job or let me pass it on to someone who can."

Lucas resumed his report, although he still sounded sympathetic. Damn it, House thought. "Before that, Chandler lived in Philly for three months with a woman. Single mother, just divorced, 3-year-old boy. Before that, he lived in Syracuse, spent a lot of time at the other address you gave me, even though he didn't technically live there. Divorcing mother of a 4-year-old girl. He'd turned up in Syracuse late January of this year. Before that, from October through December last year, he was with a woman in Albany. Recently widowed mother of a 3-year-old girl." Lucas' tone was growing more disgusted the further he went. "Before that, he was in Detroit; I'm about to head that way."

House slammed his ball against the wall in an especially vicious bounce. "Any past legal charges?"

"One complaint to CPS, which you probably know about, too. Dismissed. Other than that, nothing involving him or the mothers of the kids."

"What's his job?"

"He calls himself a day trader. Never seems to have any shortage of spare time; no listed employer I can contact. I've talked to the women, just innocently bumped into them in the mall or the park, you know. They're all the same type. Met one of the kids, too, the one in Albany. She's scared; I deliberately made a sudden movement once, not specifically toward her, but you could take it that way if you were wary, and she jumped a mile. I didn't ask any of the women directly about Chandler, just tried to work it in, pleasant chit-chat. Any one of those mothers I think I could twist around pretty easily if I wanted to. All of them revealed more than they should have about their lives just in a social conversation with a stranger. All of them remembered Chandler. Two of them met him in family court, one at a grief support group, the most recent one at the park. He was very helpful, volunteered to babysit. In every case except the latest one, he just up and left, sent them a letter."

House gritted his teeth. "Always about three months?"

"So far. Always with a solo mother with problems and a 3 or 4-year-old kid." Lucas suddenly sounded angry for the first time House could remember. "This man needs to be stopped."

"We're working on it. You said he sent a letter. Any chance any of those mothers still had it?"

"You're thinking handwriting? I didn't ask, but I'll see if I can produce a sample in Detroit. Something Ann Bellinger would recognize. I'll get you written documentation of all the addresses and anything else I've got so far by this weekend."

House nodded. "I'll try to find a way to talk to her - _without_ him, of course - beginning of next week. Exact proof or not, the history is pretty damning. I want a handwriting sample if you can from Detroit, or a picture with him, or _something_, just to help prove we're not making this up."

"Got it. They're calling my flight. I'll keep in touch." Lucas hung up.

House hung up and sat bouncing the ball, thinking. _Four _kids, and undoubtedly just the latest four in a much longer string. Yes, Patrick was even worse than John. At least John had been personal. The thought abruptly occurred to House that he himself was distracting Patrick at the moment, keeping him back from searching for another innocent child to break, and he smiled. There would be no further children as notches on Patrick's gun. The campaign of terror would end with Christopher.

His phone rang again, and he stilled the ball and looked at caller ID. Blythe. He answered.

"Greg?" She sounded almost giddy. "I've got _wonderful_ news. My psychiatrist filed a police report, like I said, and they processed the office. Took prints from him and the secretary and me. They even did the cleaning service."

"The cleaning service had better not have been handling the pages inside the charts. _What_ did the police find out?"

"Be patient, dear, I'm coming to it. There was an unidentified set all over my notes. The police even looked at a few other files at random, but the extra set wasn't on there. They couldn't get prints from the copier buttons; too many on top of each other right in that spot, they said, so it was all jumbled. But anyway, the extra set from my notes just showed up there, not anywhere else in the office. He must have taken his gloves off only when he was handling the papers. And now the police have a match on that set from the database - I forget what they called it, but it's the big one with all the fingerprints. They told my psychiatrist it is a PI, only a really shady one, and they tried to find him, but he's moved from the address on his license. He must still be around, though. They've put out a warrant and an APB on his car today." Blythe eventually ran down and stopped for breath.

"That's great, Mom. Hopefully they'll pick him up soon."

"I hope so. Oh, Greg, I hope this helps. I know it won't make up for everything, but . . ."

"You _can't_ make up for it, Mom, but I'll forgive you anyway. Just let this be the last time, okay?"

"I will." He heard the sniffle in her voice and abruptly felt guilty for cracking down on her.

"It might be a good thing, actually." He was still digesting that point himself, and he was surprised to hear his voice mention it in echo of his thoughts.

"A good thing? How?"

"This . . . beast is going after young children. I know about four already, and I've got a PI tracking more. But he's distracted right now. He's not moving on to the next one; he's occupied with me instead." House gave a shaky sigh. "I . . . I can take it better than they can."

He could still hear tears in Blythe's voice, but a different sort of tears now. "I am _so _proud of you, Gregory. Hopefully he won't _ever_ get to go after another kid."

"He won't," House vowed, meaning it. "He'll be in prison, and I'll keep him focused on me until we can boot him there. Then I'll personally make sure that the word gets around why he's inside. You know what they do with child abusers in prison?"

"Yes. He deserves it. Greg, do be careful for yourself, okay?

"I will." Wilson tapped at the office door and entered. "Got to go, Mom. My lunch ticket just walked in."

Blythe chuckled. "Tell James hi for me. I'll talk to you later, Greg."

"Hopefully not much later. Call me soon as we've got an arrest." House hung up, put his ball back in its holder, and stood. "Ready for lunch?"

"Hold _it_." Wilson stood in determination just inside the office door, hands on hips, a blocky, immovable object. "You don't get to say a line like that without explaining it. Why would your mother be arresting somebody?"

House sat back down, a bit irritated - he was hungry at the moment - but he realized they couldn't talk about Patrick in the cafeteria. He gave Wilson a brief update both on Lucas and on Blythe's idea, and the oncologist was nodding by the end.

"Nice. I love it when a plan comes together."

House rolled his eyes. "Give it up, Wilson. You'll never match Hannibal Smith on delivery of that line."

"That was a pretty good imitation," Wilson protested.

The diagnostician stood up. "Come on, let's go eat."

Wilson moved aside, ready to follow him now that curiosity had been laid to rest. Sandra was working and had mentioned a couple of critical patients; she probably wouldn't be looking for a leisurely lunch in the cafeteria today, so no worries about lunch conversation between her and House. They were just leaving when Cuddy came down the hall from the elevator, and House dropped back into the discrete confines of the office. "Hi. I need to give you a couple of updates." He ducked away, wiggling away like a school boy as Cuddy tried to feel his forehead. "Quit it! I told you, I'm not getting sick."

Wilson cocked his head. "Why would she think . . . Wait a minute, were you out in all that yesterday without a coat?"

"I _took_ a coat," House protested. "What kind of idiot goes out in November in Jersey without a coat?"

Cuddy gave an exasperated sigh. "He took a coat. Drop it, Wilson. What updates, Greg?"

"Lucas called," House started, and then trailed off. He was facing the hall, looking through the glass behind Cuddy and Wilson, and he saw the newcomers before either of them did.

Cuddy and Wilson felt his attention refocus, and they both spun around to see the cause.

Down the hall from the elevator, looking determined and sullen respectively, came Sandra and Foreman. Wilson's shoulders slumped, like a balloon with the air whooshing out, while Cuddy's stiffened up with memories of assault.

House sighed and sat back down at his desk. Somehow, he got the impression that his lunch was going to be delayed a bit longer.


	51. Chapter 51

A/N: What an incredibly frustrating weekend, consisting of not much work and of a whole lot of effort trying to get it in. Anyway, here's 51. Send me some reviews; I could use some computer-related good news after the last 2 days.

(H/C)

Sandra was talking to Foreman as they came from the elevator, no doubt expressing her condolences, and that was why Foreman didn't notice Cuddy until they were actually opening the office door. He jerked back a bit sharply, but at that point, he couldn't possibly have dodged the meeting without being obvious. With a mental sigh, he resigned himself to his fate. He had to meet Cuddy sooner or later, after all. All along, he had been looking forward to dealing with her even less than dealing with House.

The two new arrivals entered, and the group stood facing each other in the middle of the office, Foreman and Sandra on one side, Wilson and Cuddy on the other. House thought abruptly that it looked like the moment just prior to tip-off in a basketball game, everybody on their toes and just waiting to spring into action, other than Wilson, who looked like he wanted to sneak out of the circle and quit the game entirely.

Sandra started the action, looking over at Foreman. "Did you have something you needed to tell House? I was coming up to go to lunch, so that will take a while."

Foreman moved slightly aside, looking past Cuddy to House at the desk. "I looked in on the patient, and while I was there, he had an mild seizure. Not much tonic-clonic activity, but some eye movements. Total amnesia for the event and mild confusion afterward."

House sat up straight, diverted in spite of himself. "Cool. Neurological symptoms are new, and new symptoms are new clues. Full EEG, including photic stimulation. Then schedule a brain MRI. Let's see if we can get more seizures to come out to play."

Foreman nodded and turned without saying a word.

"Hold IT!" Cuddy's voice halted him in his tracks. She looked at Sandra. "Wilson, why don't you and Sandra go on to lunch without us. I need to talk to Dr. Foreman."

Sandra looked past her to House at the desk, unmistakable concern in her eyes. "I was hoping we could all eat together. I haven't had much time to see you two this week."

Wilson groaned silently. She was worried about House, the more so because he himself was playing the House card for all it was worth, trying to distract her from his own perturbation. Sandra was suspicious of something going on with him, but she had also clearly been pushed by his comments to make her own House assessment, even apparently working in a full lunch break in spite of critical patients. He wasn't sure if he dreaded lunch with House or without him more at this point. Sandra wasn't likely to let the idea drop. The oncologist closed his eyes briefly and wished for a critical patient of his own to get him out of this situation.

No critical patient appeared. Cuddy spoke up smoothly instead. "You haven't had much chance to see Wilson, either; things have been so busy. I'm sure you two would enjoy a nice lunch yourselves, and surely you have other things to talk about."

There was enough subtle emphasis on the last phrase that Sandra looked intrigued. Wilson prayed for a Code Blue, or a portable hole, or a building collapse, or _something_. Foreman was also looking interested at this point, diverted from his efforts to conceal his own apprehension.

"Tell you what," House spoke up. "Why don't we schedule lunch tomorrow, all four of us? You and Wilson could use a chance to see each other and catch up today." Wilson shot him an _et tu, Brute_ glare.

"That's a great idea," Cuddy agreed. "We'll meet you tomorrow, but at the moment, I need to talk to Dr. Foreman. Go on, Wilson."

Sandra looked from House to Cuddy to her boyfriend, who looked like he was cringing inside his professional suit, becoming a full size smaller. "That sounds like a good idea. Come on, James. We haven't had lunch together once this week."

Foreman tilted his head. "Why not? You work in the same hospital."

"Because there are also _patients_ in that hospital," Wilson snapped, "and they don't always schedule crises." Although it would be nice if they did; he couldn't fake a patient crisis with Sandra standing right there to see that no page had come. Foreman starting a differential on his relationship was the last straw. "Come on, Sandra." He tucked her arm under his and walked out, frantically scrambling for innocent topics of conversation.

The three remaining people watched the couple leave. "What's with him?" Foreman asked.

"None of your business," Cuddy replied, coldly professional. "I hadn't expected you back yet, Dr. Foreman. You can have bereavement leave, you know."

"I needed to do something," Foreman replied. He felt himself shrinking under her gaze, as Wilson had a few minutes ago. Cuddy looked dangerous at the moment.

"He came back this morning, and we already talked," House put in.

Cuddy stepped back to get them both in her field of view. "I'm glad you talked, but as administrator, there are issues I have to deal with, from the standpoint of general hospital functioning. Dr. Foreman, you committed assault on a member of the hospital staff. I cannot overlook that, even if you have apologized." Foreman and House both tightened up slightly, and Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Only you didn't apologize, did you? That's first. Apologize to Dr. House."

House shook his head. "A forced apology means nothing. This isn't third grade. Foreman and I talked, and he went back to work, end of story."

Foreman abruptly felt the anger rising again. "I don't need _you_ to stick up for me."

Cuddy sighed. "Dr. Foreman, I realize the circumstances, and I am sorry about Dr. Hadley, but to show such directed anger, attacking a disabled colleague and specifically aiming for his weakness, leaves me doubtful that you can function appropriately on the job without some intervention. What happens next time? The hospital is in a position of severe liability here if we take no action."

"There won't be a next time," Foreman muttered, eyes down. He was redoubling his plans to look for another job ASAP, but he had to keep this one for the moment, and being fired certainly wouldn't look good on his resume.

"No, there won't," Cuddy stated definitely. "Because you are going to get anger management counseling and see a therapist."

"_What?_" Foreman's head jerked up. "That's ridiculous. I was drunk. I don't practice medicine drunk; this is _not_ an issue."

"Drinking doesn't make you do things you would never do; it simply lowers your inhibitions," Cuddy insisted. "I am going to require you to get counseling, as well as requiring proof that you are actually attending appointments for the next three months. After that, you may quit it if you wish, although I'd advise you to continue. Your confidentiality applies, of course; I don't have to know what you discuss, but I do need verification that you are in counseling. You have one week to get that started; if you don't provide me proof from a therapist by then, you will be fired without a reference, and if any prospective employer calls me to ask, I will tell them that you committed assault."

Foreman felt rage building up. Who did she think she was to stand there sentencing him to therapy? He tried to stuff it down, tried to keep the calm, in-control front, as he had perfected most of his adult life, but he had to look away from her, afraid his anger would reach his eyes. "I'm not the one who needs a shrink, apparently," he challenged, looking at House.

Cuddy opened her mouth, but House spoke first. "At least I've finally admitted it. Give counseling a try, Foreman. It helps."

House faced them unwaveringly. Cuddy felt a surge of pure pride; Foreman felt one of grudging respect. The neurologist didn't respond. Cuddy gave him a moment, then repeated, "You have one week to begin counseling. That will be all, Dr. Foreman."

Foreman turned and left, looking even more sullen than when he entered, and House let out a deep breath, shoulders slumping as he let out the tension of facing yet again the fact that _everybody knew_. His own psychiatric problems were out there in the general hospital now; he could distribute snark and counterattack freely, but he couldn't deny them. Cuddy moved over to the desk and bent for a deeply satisfying kiss. He was surprised at first, then responded. "I'm proud of you," she said when they finally broke away.

"You must be. Anybody at all walking by could have seen that; the blinds are open."

"Let 'em look. We're married." All the same, she straightened back up, smoothed out her blouse and skirt, and took the seat across the desk from him, the picture of two colleagues having a professional conference.

House faced her, his blue eyes troubled. "Counseling isn't a bad idea, but it's not going to work like this. Forcing him accomplishes nothing."

She shook her head. "It _does_ accomplish limiting the hospital's liability if he ever blows again, but remember, you went to Jensen at first because I bribed you and you were dodging your mother. Do you think you would have just woken up one morning completely unprompted and decided that was the day to go see a psychiatrist?"

House grinned slightly. "Touche. I'd thought about it a few times, actually, but I probably never would have taken that last step without a boost."

"Exactly. You went for the wrong reasons, but then you discovered it helped. Maybe Foreman will, too. He does need this. Jensen agreed that he needs it, and Jensen said he thought that even before Hadley's death and him attacking you."

House started to nod, then suddenly looked scared halfway. "He's not going to . . ."

"Jensen wouldn't accept him as a patient," Cuddy assured him. "Even if he happened to pick a psychiatrist in another state two hours away, he's not getting that one."

House relaxed. "Good. I still hate threatening him with his job, though. He needs this job."

"Which is precisely why no other threat would work. Besides, Greg, you're the one who told him once that he was fired to infinity."

"That was . . . different." House picked up his ball again and started fiddling with it.

"Because he happened to pick the _one_ action you find it easiest to forgive anybody for?" He looked up, the ball stilling. "Physical assault is physical assault. Don't make a separate category for yourself that calls it justifiable. It's _not_ justifiable, Greg. Like I said, what if it had been me he attacked? He would have liked to slap me there for a moment just now; I saw it in his eyes. Not that he did, but the fleeting thought did cross his mind."

House straightened up, blue fire igniting in his eyes. "You really think he . . ."

"I think he thought he would have liked to, yes. He _needs_ counseling, Greg. Being drunk isn't an excuse; if it were, you'd think Wilson did nothing wrong with Sandra. His target being you certainly isn't an excuse. Trust Jensen. Foreman has a lot of anger inside that he needs to deal with, and if he doesn't deal with that, he _is_ a liability to the hospital, because he's proven now that he can lose control of it."

House nodded slowly. "Okay," he replied. "You're the administrator."

Cuddy reached across the desk to capture his hand and squeeze it. "I won't make him apologize to you, since you don't want me to. But I still think he should."

"That'll be the day." House had had more than enough of this subject. "So, like I said, Lucas called. Want to hear his report?" Her eyes answered for her, and he launched into a summary of the two phone calls. After that, they went down to the cafeteria together to find Sandra alone just finishing her plate, her lunch break almost over. Wilson, she said, had been called away to a patient.


	52. Chapter 52

Short update. Next chapter (Friday morning) is longer.

(H/C)

Wilson was feeling doubly guilty as he approached his apartment door. He had wished - had actually _wished_ - for a critical patient to offer him an excuse to avoid lunch with his girlfriend. Well, he had gotten his wish. The call about Mrs. Olson's abrupt deterioration had come just as they were in line in the cafeteria. For the remainder of Thursday afternoon, Wilson had tried to get her stabilized again, had talked to the family when that failed, and finally had sat beside her for three hours so she wouldn't be alone while her kids flew in. The kids had been the ones in denial, protesting that she had been getting treatment, that things had been looking better, that the end couldn't be near. She herself had the utterly calm acceptance of someone who has fought the good fight, has lived a full life with few regrets, but realizes that fate has stepped in and that it is over. She spoke during that 3-hour vigil of her marriage of 53 years, of her husband who had died 2 years ago. "I've tried so hard in the treatment," she wheezed around the oxygen cannula. "I wanted to live for them, for the grandkids. But it will be _good_ to see him again. I've missed him." Wilson sat there listening to her tale of highlights of her relationship, a purely positive chronicle, and feeling more and more like a heel.

"Weren't there ever any disagreements?" he asked.

"Oh, of course there were," she replied, "but when you truly love each other, you work things out. When we fought, we still both wanted to work it out as soon as we could."

"And there was never anybody else?" he asked.

She shook her head. "From the moment we got together, no matter what the disagreement, there was never anybody else. _Never._"

How did people do that? Why could the whole world remain faithful for _53 years_ while he couldn't? He loved them. He loved Sandra. At least he thought he did. But why did everybody else seem to get it so right while his relationships continually went wrong? Did he not love them enough? Did they not love _him_ enough? Once again, he remembered his thoughts from the car Monday night, of wishing just _once_ that somebody would commit so absolutely and fight so fiercely for him as Cuddy would for House. He could picture Cuddy in decades (hopefully minus the cancer and death bed) saying, "From the moment we got together, no matter what the disagreement, there was never anybody else. _Never_."

He couldn't picture anybody saying that about him. Which was probably no more than he deserved, because in spite of his best intentions, he couldn't imagine saying that about anybody else.

Maybe he just wasn't cut out for long-term relationships. Maybe every one he would ever be in was doomed.

He opened the apartment door and stepped in. Sandra was sitting on the couch with a book, waiting for him, and he felt an extra icing of guilt added to what he already carried. He didn't deserve her vigil.

She stood as he entered and walked over to kiss him warmly. Guilty, undeserving, cheating bastard or not, Wilson responded. He couldn't help it; he was male, after all. "How's Mrs. Olson?" she asked.

He shook his head. "She's losing the fight. All at once. She's not going to make it."

Sandra nodded sadly. "Some of them are like that. They really are putting up a battle, and then just suddenly, they hit the end of their strength."

"I sat with her until her kids got here. Talking to them was the worst; they're still grasping at straws. She knows it's over. How are your two who weren't doing well?"

"One of them is better this afternoon." She sighed. "One of them isn't."

He moved over to sit down on the couch, closing his eyes for a moment and rubbing them with his hand. He heard her go to the kitchen, then felt a warm bowl shoved into his lap, and he opened his eyes to see the soup she had heated. A fourth surge of guilt joined the others, but he still picked up the spoon and ate. Guilty or not, he was hungry.

Sandra had sat down again, watching him, looking troubled herself, and he tried to give her a reassuring grin. It fell flat. He finished and set the bowl down. "James," she started, softly but with determination.

He sighed. Not much chance of physical escape right now. "What?" he replied, his voice a little sharper than he'd intended.

"I called Jensen when I got home from work."

He came up off the couch, starting an agitated pace circle in spite of his tiredness. "And he told you that he really did have other openings this week, didn't he? Hasn't _anybody_ heard of confidentiality?"

_"What?"_ Sandra's surprise stopped him in his tracks. "No, actually, he didn't tell me he really had other openings this week."

Wilson sighed again and wished for another critical patient. He would take the extra guilt, the bedside vigil, _anything_ to get him out of this.

"So you were the one who wanted to skip this week?" she demanded.

"I just . . . there's so much else going on . . . I . . ." The oncologist was floundering.

"I was just _worried_ about you. I know something's eating at you, and I know you're trying to keep me from finding out for some reason. Even _Foreman_ can tell something is wrong. Whatever it is, you _need_ to talk to somebody, and the fact that you're avoiding Jensen as well as me shows that you really know you _need_ to be working through this. We're the two closest people you talk to - except House, and given the week he's had, I can see why you don't want to go into a long talk with him about what's bugging you, even if he knows the reason already. Which he clearly does, probably worked it out himself, and he also shared it with Cuddy. That's why they both want you to talk to me. But you're just avoiding talking to anybody, and you're chewing yourself to pieces this week. So I called Jensen to ask if he had any appointments before next Wednesday."

Wilson hit the end of the living room and turned again, wearing an agitated track in the floor. "I'll go next Wednesday. I promise."

Sandra persisted. "He said he could work you in either tomorrow or Monday. James, even if you won't talk to me, which I wish you would, you need to have a good session and talk to _somebody_. House's crisis on top of whatever yours is is too much to carry alone."

Wilson shook his head. "I can't go tomorrow. Mrs. Olson is dying. Call the hospital if you want proof."

She gave him an odd look. "I believe you. Monday, then. James, promise me that you will go see Jensen on Monday. And you can talk to me sooner if you want. I wish you would."

He came to a halt beside the window, staring out into the darkness. "I'd . . . like to talk to you about it, but . . . I'll see Jensen on Monday, okay? I promise. Let me try to work through it with him first; he helps me think more clearly."

She nodded, still looking not satisfied. "Okay. James, you know, if you ever decide that you just don't love me any more, tell me so. Don't drag it out."

He spun around from the window. "What? No, that's not . . . I love you. I really do. I _want _this relationship."

She chewed on her lip for a moment, then backed off. "All right. I'll respect your privacy for the moment, unless things don't get better. But you _are _going to go see Jensen and talk. I'm putting my foot down on that; you're going to give yourself an ulcer if you keep on like this. I can't just watch you and do _nothing_."

There was genuine concern in her eyes, and he went over to join her on the couch again. She starting kissing him again, trying to distract him from his troubles, he realized, and once again, in spite of all the guilt, he readily responded. He couldn't help it.

He _did_ want this relationship. But he knew deep down that he didn't deserve it.

(H/C)

Cuddy came back into the living room, having just finished putting the girls to bed. House was sitting on the couch, staring into space, and she came up behind him, her fingers massaging his shoulders, finding and kneading out the tension. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"I . . . about the girls."

She kept up her massage. "What about them?"

"About the fact that there are sick bastards like Patrick in the world. We brought them here."

She gave his shoulders a final rub, then moved around to join him on the couch. "And we'll protect them, the best we can."

He turned to face her, the blue eyes frightened, not for him, but for his daughters. "What if our best isn't enough?"

"Our best is better than anybody else's best, because _nobody_ loves them more than we do. Whatever the future brings, love will get us through it. Besides, like I said, they won't have to worry about Patrick, because if all else fails, we can take out a contract." She watched with satisfaction as his worried eyes started laughing instead.

"I insist on paying half."

"Wrong, Greg. We'll both pay ALL, because it is OUR bank account. Just like this is OUR house."

He settled against her. "I do wonder what he's doing tonight, how he's taking things so far from Andrews' reports."

"I'm sure he's totally baffled. But let's not waste the evening wondering what Patrick is doing tonight, okay? Whatever he's doing, it isn't half as good as what we have here." She kissed him, and slowly at first, then more willingly, he responded.

They didn't mention Patrick for the rest of the evening. She was right; there were far better topics for the two of them.


	53. Chapter 53

Foreman got to work early Friday morning only to find both Taub and Kutner there already, Taub reading the newspaper and pointedly ignoring Kutner, who was talking to him anyway. "Good morning," Kutner said as Foreman entered.

Foreman settled for nodding and started for the coffee pot, only to stop in his tracks as the overpowering smell settled onto him like a cloud. "What is that?"

"Carpet glue," Kutner replied, stating the obvious. He picked up a note from the conference table and handed it over. "Janitorial had an accident last night, but they'll be back to fix it."

Foreman studied the note. "Sorry about the smell; the cart tipped and knocked over a container of carpet glue, and the lid must have been loose. Spilled some. Be careful not to step in it. We're getting something to clean it up with and will be back later. Sorry again." He humphed under his breath - couldn't even the janitors be efficient and professional in this hospital? Foreman sometimes felt like he was the only person at PPTH except maybe Wilson who appreciated the dignity of the job and the fact that patients and families would judge them on their appearances. At least it wasn't a public area; that would have been worse. He looked around, spotting the sticky puddle in the corner. It did indeed look exactly like a bucket had been knocked over and the lid had been loose.

"It is kind of strong," Kutner admitted, which was an understatement. "After House gets in and we run through the morning differential, we can probably just avoid this room until they get it cleaned up later."

Foreman sat down at the table with his coffee. Something was tickling at the back of his mind. Carpet glue. What did that remind him up? He realized that Kutner was speaking. "What?"

Kutner's dark eyes were concerned. "I asked how you were doing."

"I'm fine. Just trying to move on and get back to normal, which will happen sooner if everybody stops asking me how I'm doing." There was an edge under his voice that surprised him more than Kutner, and he tried to even out his tone. Perfectly normal, just another day at PPTH. "Did either of you guys happen to see House at the cemetery Wednesday?"

"No," Taub answered succinctly, not looking up from his paper.

"I did," Kutner stated. Foreman looked up from his coffee, surprised. He hadn't really believed House on that point yesterday.

Taub did put the paper down then. "Really? Where was he? He sure wasn't under the tent."

"He was hiding behind a tree. He probably thought you wouldn't be thrilled to see him," Kutner guessed, indicating Foreman with a tilt of his head. "He was there, though. I spotted him, but then I got . . . distracted looking at the coffin and thinking about something else. Next time I looked, he was gone."

"So he actually did go." Foreman took a sip of his coffee, slotting this into his picture of the situation. House hadn't gone to mock him or rub his loss in his face or blame him or make a scene. To go but hang back hiding behind a tree really did sound like he had wanted to pay his respects to Remy but hadn't been quite sure how. Foreman shook his head again, fighting off the sympathy. He didn't want to feel sympathy. Anger was easier. He could handle anger, could keep working through it, smooth and professional.

"I was thinking last night," Kutner started, "about his father's funeral. In the light of what we know now, that takes on a whole different perspective." Kutner was trying to protect both House and Foreman by not mentioning Friday night's attack in public, but he couldn't help wanting to talk through other things that were common knowledge, working out the differential on his boss.

Taub nodded. "I wonder what Cuddy said to him when she found out? She drugged him after all, and she and Wilson kidnapped him. That would take a serious apology."

"Well, they're married, so he obviously forgave her," Foreman pointed out. His nostrils flared slightly. The smell of the glue really was strong; he would be glad when House got in so they could finish the morning's differential and move to other parts of the hospital.

Kutner couldn't let it drop, though. "Can you imagine having to go to a funeral for the man who made your childhood hell and having to give a eulogy?"

"Oh, I'm sure House as a kid made his dad's life pretty tough, too," Foreman countered.

Kutner looked at him steadily, and for the first time in memory, Foreman saw genuine anger smoldering in the dark eyes and heard it in the young doctor's voice. "Tell me, _what_ exactly does a kid do to deserve being nailed to the floor as punishment? Or ice baths?"

Their eyes locked, and it was Foreman who looked down first. "I'm not saying his dad wasn't over the top. Just that he probably wasn't a saint himself. You're right; nobody deserves being nailed down. That's taking discipline too far."

"That's _abuse_, not discipline," Kutner insisted. "I don't care what House was like as a child; he didn't deserve that."

"Nobody ever said life was fair," Taub reminded them. "Lots of things happen we don't deserve."

Foreman tuned out the discussion as it continued. Kutner could make anybody tired with his absolute refusal to let a subject drop. He was like House that way. Cameron could be annoyingly persistent, too, but she had been selective in her persistence. House and Kutner both were incapable of leaving _anything_ alone.

Odd that Cameron had come to mind when he hadn't worked with her for years. Her and her juvenile crush on House.

In that instant, Foreman remembered what carpet glue reminded him of and also why he had done his best to forget the whole episode since. That case years ago with the autistic kid. Cuddy had changed the carpet in House's office, removing the old blood-stained one, and House had thrown the biggest fit Foreman had ever seen from him in the course of a case. Normally, House would do crazy things here and there, but they were all related to focus on the case and needing to solve it. His over-the-top reaction that day hadn't been related to the case at all, nor had it been passing. For the whole day, he had utterly refused to go back in the office. Cameron, of course, just _had_ to work this out, and she had been trying for days after that to engage Foreman and Chase in her own differential. Foreman hadn't cared; Chase had accepted it with a "just House, and he's eccentric" shrug; but Cameron had gnawed that bone for a full month afterward. Her final conclusion remained the one she had come up with that day, that it wasn't a power play, and that House didn't like change. Not liking change wasn't adequate to explain his actions on that case, though, and she knew it. Foreman had been grateful the day she finally did _not_ bring it up, and he'd tried hard to banish all thought of the carpet after that, lest he trip her off again.

Now, though, Foreman himself couldn't help wondering if House's aversion to new carpet was related to a bad memory from childhood. Or perhaps it was carpet glue itself that had set him off; Foreman could remember House's nose twitching like Samantha on Bewitched when he had first walked in the conference room that morning. How on earth could his father have tormented him with carpet glue, though?

Abruptly, with a slight chill, Foreman realized that today's carpet glue probably wasn't a janitorial accident. Somebody was after House, trying to destroy his reputation; obvious enough from the mass sending of the legal papers. That same person, who clearly had found inside information on House's past somewhere, was deliberately setting House up today with a trigger. If House had reacted as strongly and over-the-top as he had all those years ago on an otherwise routine day, several weeks removed from his shooting and any trauma, how would he react at the moment when he had to be strung out to the limit already with the whole hospital gossiping about his past, and with the smell far stronger with an open spill on _top_ of the carpet?

Anger. Curiosity. Sympathy. The three emotions whirled through Foreman's mind in a cat fight. This was the perfect opportunity to get even with House for dragging Remy in as an innocent casualty into a case based on his own past. Perfect revenge, and more perfect in that Foreman hadn't even been the one to set it up and could not possibly be blamed for it. Foreman did hold the power right now, though, and part of him relished that knowledge. He was the only person in the room who had been there on that autistic kid's case. He alone knew this was a new move in this round of psychological warfare that someone, probably Patrick Chandler, the mother was far too weak for all this, was playing with House. He had power over the villain, too; he alone could intervene and derail it, if he chose. But he had only to sit here and watch the situation unfold. What would House's reaction be?

On the other hand, House really had gone to the cemetery Wednesday, apparently really was sorry for Remy's loss, in spite of the words Foreman had overhead. And as Kutner had said, did _anybody_ deserve House's apparent past? Much as he wanted to argue that _yes_, damn it, House was an arrogant jackass from birth who had deserved every single thing that had happened to him, Foreman couldn't. But how he wanted to. Yes, anger was much easier to deal with than sympathy.

What would happen?

Did he really need to know? House's sincere apology to him yesterday rang again in his memory. Damn.

Foreman saw House approaching down the hall, limping slowly from the elevator. It wasn't a conscious decision, but the neurologist's legs took over, propelling him to his feet so quickly that the chair tipped and crashed to the ground. Abandoning his coffee, he quickly exited the conference room, trailed a moment later by a baffled Kutner and Taub. "House!" he said urgently, physically blocking his boss's progress down the hall. "You might want to know that the janitor spilled carpet glue on the floor in the conference room."

House came to a dead halt, his face going a few shades paler, and all three saw the naked fear in his eyes. He blinked, visibly wrenching his thoughts from whatever hell they had descended to. "The janitor?" he asked.

Kutner helpfully returned to the conference room and retrieved the note, emerging to give it to House. "Tipped the cart over, he said. They'll be back later with something to clean it up." It was a busy time of day at the hospital, and traffic was flowing around them like a river around a rock, but nobody gave them more than a passing glance. House having a conference with his team in the middle of the hall happened all the time.

House read the note. There was an obvious struggle in his eyes; they could hear the sounds of battle, though they couldn't see details of the fight. Kutner reached forward tentatively to touch his arm. "Are you all right?"

House looked down at the hand, the warm touch of the present against him. Abruptly, he nodded, then spun so quickly his leg protested and marched back toward the elevator. The team followed. "Where are we going?" Kutner asked once the elevator doors closed.

"Down," House snapped, stabbing the button. The team stood in awkward silence until the doors opened, and House stalked across the lobby toward Cuddy's office. He burst in without knocking. She was on the phone and looked up, startled. House limped to her desk and slapped the note down in front of her. "I want the carpet changed!" he demanded, full volume. The team fanned out behind him, avid spectators.

"House, I . . . I'll have to call you back. Thank you." She hung up, her worried eyes fixed on him, not the note. "What are you talking about? Are you . . ."

House tapped the note firmly. "I want the carpet changed. Bad enough that somebody bled all over it several years ago, but now, there's carpet glue dumped on it."

Cuddy's eyes widened in horror and absolute understanding. "Carpet glue . . ."

"Read the note. Your incompetent janitor tipped the cart over and dumped glue on the carpet last night. That finishes ruining it; nothing's ever going to totally get that out. The floor will be sticky to walk across even after they try. It's a safety hazard, and I demand that it be totally changed today."

Cuddy finally took her eyes off him long enough to read the note. When she looked back up, the expression on her face was enough to make all three team members back half a step. She looked absolutely murderous. Her voice, in marked contrast, was purely crisp and professional. "I agree, Dr. House; this situation cannot just be cleaned up. I will get new carpet in your suite immediately, and I will look into the carelessness of housekeeping. Meanwhile, your team may use conference room two. You obviously cannot effectively be doing differentials in your rooms while the work is going on."

House nodded. "Thank you." He turned, much more slowly now, to the team. "Foreman, get the whiteboard and take it to conference room 2. Kutner, bring my ball and the coffee pot. Taub, go get new labs on the patient." The team was still rooted there, their eyes firmly on Cuddy now, not House. "NOW!" House bellowed, and they all jolted back to life, turned, and left.

As soon as they were gone, House limped over to the couch and sat down. Cuddy immediately left her desk and went over to join him. "Are you okay?" she asked. He leaned into her hands, relishing the contact, the firm reminder of the present just like Kutner had grounded him earlier.

"That absolute bastard . . . he wanted to knock me into a flashback in front of everybody."

"Did . . ."

"I didn't go in. Foreman warned me; guess he remembered how much it bothered me before."

"I'll have to remember to thank him, although I'm not backing down on counseling."

House's head jerked up. "No. Don't thank him, Lisa. That will just make . . . a bigger deal out of it. I'll thank him, but if you did, that's too much. They already know something's going on." House buried his face in his hands. "Will I _ever_ just be able to do a routine differential again without them looking at me and wondering what's going on?"

Cuddy pulled him firmly over against her. "Yes. We're winning, Greg. And remember Lucas and your mother's psychiatrist; we're getting dirt on Chandler. This is almost over. It can't be much longer now, and then he'll be in jail."

House's voice was muffled against her. "The note. Save the note. I'll bet it's Andrews' handwriting."

"I will. Pretty stupid of him to leave that."

"If he hadn't, Kutner would have called Housekeeping himself first thing when he got in." Cuddy could still feel him quivering slightly, but he was a bit steadier now in her embrace. "This kept them from reporting it as an accident, because they thought the janitor already knew."

"Do you really want new carpet, Greg? I promise, if there's anything on earth that would just clean that up, I'll find it."

He pushed back and gave her a wavering grin. "I think it's probably time for new carpet anyway. That old one had blood on it, you know. High time we threw it away."

She kissed him thoroughly, then released him and stood up. Keeping an eye on him still, she walked back around her desk, locked the note in the top drawer, then took out the phone book, scouted for a minute, and dialed. "This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I want the carpet completely replaced in a double suite, and there's an extra $1000 in it for you if you can complete the work today _and_ have the smell of carpet glue cleared out somehow by Monday morning. . . Yes, $1000 . . . Thank you. I'll see you in half an hour. Come to my office, and I'll take you up and show you the room." She hung up and quickly returned to the couch. "Greg are you . . ."

He wasn't crying, she realized, although his shoulders were shaking. He was _laughing_, laughing not hysterically but with a real thread of humor underneath. "An extra $1000," he quoted.

"It's well worth it. Nothing like money to increase the motivation on service providers. But why is that funny?"

He looked up at her. "We've got to land Patrick in jail soon, Lisa. We're going to run ourselves bankrupt if this case goes on much longer."

She was getting annoyed, feeling left on the outside of a joke. "_What_ is funny?"

"I paid Hawkins Windows an extra $1000 to get them to schedule for Wednesday at 2:00. Hadn't told you about that yet. The funny thing is, that was my undoing. I _over_ motivated them. They got there so early and with extra people they were done by 1:50." He shook his head. "I'd been putting off mentioning that to you, because I was afraid you'd be mad over the money. And then you go offering people $1000 bonuses for faster service yourself."

Cuddy was hung between guilt remembering his funeral fears and the humor of the situation. Humor won. Laughing was better than crying, after all. She put her arm around his shoulders, pulling him against her. "We definitely need to get Patrick arrested. I won't object to bribing the window company if you don't object to the carpet place, agreed?"

"Agreed. Although you could pass the carpet bonus off as a hospital expense."

Cuddy shook her head firmly. "Nope. I am _never_ going to risk having to explain this to the board. I'll pay the additional bit myself, out of _our_ account." She gave him an extra squeeze. "Are you okay, Greg?"

He still seemed a bit rattled, but only her super observant eyes would have spotted it by now. He nodded and stood up. "Better get back to work. I've got a case to solve."

"Don't forget, lunch with Sandra and Wilson." His shoulders slumped, and she realized that he didn't want to put himself under Sandra's observations right now. It was barely 9:00, and he was already emotionally on empty for the day. "We can reschedule it to Monday. I'll tell Sandra something came up. What about a Reuben instead with just me for company and no serious conversation allowed?" He gave her a nod, and she saw the relieved gratitude in his eyes. "Come down to my office at noon." She stood up herself and kissed him again, trying to impart some of her love, reassurance, and strength to carry him on through today. "We're _winning_, Greg," she promised him again. "This will all be over soon."

"Right. See you later." He turned and limped out. Cuddy went back to her desk, withdrew the note, and then hunted through her paperwork until she found something written by Andrews. Side by side, the similarity was unmistakable. Fury glittered in her eyes, and she forced it down. They couldn't move on Andrews until Patrick was safely in custody. _We're winning_, she reminded herself. Even so, it was a long time before she could focus her thoughts on work.

House entered conference room 2 to find Foreman setting up the whiteboard. "Kutner will be here in a minute. He got this weird idea about coffee absorbing smells; he's finding a completely different coffee pot so we won't be drinking something that tastes like carpet glue. Not that it did before, but you know how he is on an idea."

"I know," House agreed. "Foreman?" He waited until the other man reluctantly looked up to meet his eyes. "Thanks."

Foreman gave him a curt nod, then looked away. "I'm still not apologizing to you," he insisted.


	54. Chapter 54

Short update. Sorry for the delay. Life, and family, and vehicles, and the work server have all been nuts. The work server was, of course, up during the several hour period taken up by an emergency call from family. I really wish I could pay bills with reviews; this story is one of the few things going right the last month. Anyway, enjoy 54, and if you are thinking, "But you didn't mention what happened at lunch with Wilson," keep your shirt on; it gets covered later, briefly. This remains primarily House's story, but continue to keep in mind that it isn't done yet.

(H/C)

"Good to see you, Dr. House." Jensen stood up from his desk as House entered. House settled for a wordless nod and got himself carefully stretched out in the chair with the ottoman. Clearly, his leg was hurting, and the psychiatrist also thought on his quick initial assessment that House looked edgy and unsettled, hardly surprising at the moment. He did not, at least, look ill; hopefully he had survived Wednesday with no physical consequences. Jensen got coffee for both of them and then, after handing House's cup to him, returned to his desk to pick up a Tupperware container at one side. He came back to the chairs, handed the container to House as well, and sat down himself.

"What's this?" House asked, half-curious, half-suspicious.

"Open it and find out," Jensen suggested.

House hesitated for a moment, then opened the container. "Fudge?" He took a test bite out of one square, ran a differential on it, then nodded. "Not bad. You decide to give all your patients fudge today?"

"It's not from me; it's from Cathy. She made it - with some help from Melissa, but she was actively participating herself."

House looked puzzled. "Why would she make me fudge?" he asked, speaking around the rest of the first square. It _was_ good fudge. Impressive for an 8-year-old.

"Just as thanks for helping her out with the piano this week," Jensen replied.

House had almost forgotten Cathy and the piano in the emotional maelstrom of Wednesday through this morning. "How's she doing with it?"

"Much better, much less frustrated. She's got a lesson set up with a new teacher next week. Meanwhile, her practice is totally different this week. She's actually having fun with it."

House picked up a second square of fudge. "Music shouldn't be annoying. When practice gets purely annoying without _any_ enjoyment in it, something's wrong."

Jensen nodded. "I should have realized sooner that the problem might be on the other side. She's so full of life; pure frustration isn't like her. Cathy really does want to play; she has ever since your wedding." He paused a moment. "Could you get any idea how much natural talent she has? I know wanting something isn't enough at times." That question wasn't in his professional persona. He was purely the father right now, wishing he could give his daughter what she wanted so badly, knowing that with the root issue of talent, he couldn't make any difference.

House considered as he polished off his second square of fudge. "It's hard to tell right now. She's not bad, but she's not Mozart. Also, not only is she just beginning, but she's been taught wrong for a year. Really, it's impressive that she got as far as she did. But that just speaks to determination so far, and unfortunately, determination and talent don't always go together. I couldn't really predict it at this stage; you'll know more after she has correct lessons for a while." Jensen was silent for a moment, and House looked up from the fudge quickly. "I'm sorry. I know that's not what you wanted to hear. I can't just feed people bullshit to make them feel good."

"It's okay. If I hadn't wanted an honest opinion, I wouldn't have asked you. I just wish I'd realized what was going on with the lessons before."

"Some people can enjoy just playing, you know. Even if they aren't world-beaters on talent, they just enjoy doing it. She should have a lot more fun with it now, even if she isn't ever going to be Rubinstein. And I don't know that she _isn't_ talented. I just think we couldn't assess it accurately right now off a year of wrong practice."

Jensen gave him a smile. "You're better at reassurance that you think you are." He switched into professional mode, the change as obvious as taking off one set of clothes and putting on another. "So, how are things going? Are there any new developments I don't know?"

"I know Lisa told you about Wednesday." House looked away, the fudge forgotten now in his lap.

"Is there anything _you_ want to tell me about Wednesday?" Jensen asked.

House hesitated. There were things he wanted to talk about, but the relief of being able to trust Cuddy had overshadowed them, and he wasn't sure he wanted to look under the blanket and pull them back out. He didn't want to start questioning her again. Realizing she wouldn't drug and kidnap him had been one of the few positive things in this week. He set down his coffee, then put the top back on the Tupperware container and started to turn it in his hands like a square thinking ball.

"I am impressed that you went to the funeral and the cemetery," Jensen continued, giving him a bit of a conversational nudge. He intended to handle House carefully today, and if the diagnostician had shown any signs of changing to another subject, Jensen would have followed, but he wasn't dodging off this subject; he was merely stuck.

House shook his head. "I almost didn't go. Course, I didn't really think I had a choice, but even when I knew I did, I nearly chickened out. Then I couldn't even get close to the funeral, so I did chicken out."

"Your actions were _not _chickening out," Jensen insisted. "You showed a lot of courage."

"Running away from the church? Hiding behind a tree?" House looked back at him briefly before returning his focus to the far wall. "Real picture of courage there."

"What do you think courage looks like?" Jensen asked.

House had a mental picture immediately descend on him of John in full dress uniform, imperial expression evident as his father looked disparagingly on those endowed with less fortitude, one hand resting on the sword that was the pure symbol of the authority and impressiveness of the polished, professional Marine. House flinched so sharply that his leg cramped up, and the container of fudge fell off his lap to the ground.

"Easy." Jensen picked up the fudge and set it aside. House was clawing at his leg, and Jensen gave him a moment to try it himself, then reached out to put one hand gently on House's forearm. "Would you like me to help?" he asked, his tone absolutely neutral, conversational, containing no preference or assessment of weakness.

House looked at Jensen's hand on his arm, suddenly remembering Kutner this morning asking if he was all right. Kutner was less good at a casual front than Jensen, but the genuine concern in both cases was there. House tried working at the cramp for another few seconds on his own, then relented silently with a nod. Someone else always had a better angle on it than he could get himself. Damn leg.

Jensen worked on the spasming leg for a few minutes. When he finally had the partial muscle worked into compliance again, he still kept his hands there for a little longer, resting gently, giving warmth to the leg and giving contact to House. House had his eyes closed, but that touch, that connection felt oddly reassuring to him.

"What were you thinking there?" Jensen asked after a moment. "Was your father talking to you again?"

House opened his eyes, looking toward the far wall. "Not talking. I just had this image of him standing there looking like . . . like a Marine. Dress uniform and all. You asked what courage looks like. He was always telling me that's what courage was, that a Marine was the epitome of it. Sometimes he'd . . . he'd tie me up, and he'd put on his dress uniform and just stand there and _look_ at me. Like I was being weighed and didn't amount to anything. He'd just stand there like that with one hand on his sword and _look_."

"Did he ever hit you with the sword?" Jensen asked.

House shook his head. "He told me I wasn't worth it. Like it would _sully_ his weapon somehow. I almost preferred the times he'd hit me to his just standing there."

"Pain can be countered and fought much more easily than humiliation," Jensen agreed. "I apologize for bringing that back up for you, but actually, you didn't answer the question correctly. Not even in your thoughts. Can we agree that your father was a coward, a lowlife, and a bully?"

House grinned suddenly. "I think we can agree on that."

"So that wasn't a picture of what courage looks like. That's the antithesis of courage. Nobody with true courage has to demean others to promote his own superiority. Think of people in your life whom you have seen demonstrate courage. I know you must have had the thought at times that this was a picture of bravery, although you probably wouldn't have said so. Who were they, and how were they brave?"

House looked thoughtful. "Rachel," he said after a moment. "Fighting that virus in the hospital. Such an overmatch, it seemed like, this child who'd had a rough start versus a virus that can kill adults. But she never gave up. I remember thinking that was real strength and courage. I even thought Dad didn't have a clue what those were and that Rachel had more than he did."

"Excellent," Jensen approved. "Who else?"

"Cuddy, sometimes. She'll talk at home about a tough meeting or conference coming up, something she's really worried about for the hospital, and then the next day in public, she'll march straight in and just deal with it. If I hadn't heard her the night before worrying, I'd never know she was anything other than confident. Cathy, even, fighting on for a year with the piano when it was annoying her so much because she knew something was wrong and thought it was her. She could have given up, but she didn't." He paused and took a gulp of coffee. "Thirteen . . . _Hadley_. The way she kept working against her disease. That night Christopher died, when she came to my office and asked to be taken off direct patient contact, but she still wanted to work as long as possible. I said I'd have to terminate her when she couldn't contribute anything anymore, and she said she'd quit first at that point. _That_ was courage." He trailed off into silence.

"Interesting," Jensen noted. "All of your examples deal with a person against a legitimate obstacle, not just a person trying to inflate their own worth by slamming those who are weaker. There wasn't necessarily a victory involved; with Cathy, for instance, it was simply not giving up. And I'm sure that Dr. Cuddy hasn't had a 100% success rate in those meetings that she was worried about. Dr. Hadley, unfortunately, couldn't face the public exposure, but that doesn't diminish her courage over the years since her diagnosis in dealing with it and trying to continue to work as long as she was effective. Somebody facing a struggle, realizing it will be a struggle, and still going forward to meet it, not knowing if victory will result. Is that a good enough definition of courage?"

House tilted his head. "Yes. That's it. Dad never had that."

"No, he didn't. So tell me, Dr. House, when have you in your life shown courage?" House was silent, absolutely stumped. Jensen gave him a moment, then prompted gently. "What have you struggled with and simply refused to give up, like Cathy with the piano?"

"My leg," House offered after a moment.

"Very good. That's a wonderful display of courage. I'm sure other people around you admire how you have dealt with your disability and tried to never let it interfere with your work. What else?" House was silent. "What about the aftermath of the accident last year, struggling through speech difficulties?"

House flinched at the reminder of those days. "That wasn't courage; that was just stubbornness."

"No, it wasn't. Stubbornness can help, but that was definitely courage. Stubbornness is also selfish; it's purely focused on the person who has it. But part of your motivation for getting better was your family and your daughters, especially wanting to improve by the time Abby came home. Correct?" House nodded. "That's courage, Dr. House. What about the whole past year and a half of therapy? Dr. Cuddy bribed you to come, but that doesn't take you through a year and a half. Why haven't you quit with this?"

"It _helps_. I . . . want to get better. For my family and . . ."

"And what?"

"For me. _I _want to get better."

"And you are. Never underestimate the courage that this is taking. You _do_ have that courage. Now, how did your efforts Wednesday in attempting to go to the funeral show courage?"

House hesitated again, then slowly started. "I . . . tried. And then I didn't just give up when I couldn't; I went on to the cemetery instead."

"Precisely. And _that_, Dr. House, is a picture of courage." Jensen picked up the Tupperware container and offered it back to House. "Have some fudge before we go on."

House opened the container and slowly munched another square as Jensen topped off both of their coffee cups.

_TBC_


	55. Chapter 55

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Things are not good at all, either at work serverwise/trying to get my hours in to pay the bills or with family on multiple fronts. I will give you what I can, when I can. I absolutely hated breaking a Jensen session last time, but that was as much as I could do that day. Also, please keep in mind that there is a plan for this story, and the plot isn't done yet. I know some authors are of the "vote here for what you want to see happen next" variety, but I cannot work that way and actually think it leads to disorganized stories. I will never put up chapter 1 of a story without a clear view to the end and framework in place, even on this story, which is easily the most complicated plot of the series. So those several of you trying to "remind" me in messages of this or that apparently dropped thread, or at least not updated in the detail order they want, or objecting that we haven't heard about (fill-in-your-blank) in at least a chapter, would you please just trust me on this? This story is not done yet. Your reviews are appreciated, but the plot is already completely blocked out, and I really do know where I'm going. Just be patient. I haven't forgotten about Wilson, Patrick, Foreman, Andrews, or Christopher.

I will tell you that the story ends on Monday after Thanksgiving. It is currently Friday before Thanksgiving week. In other words, there's still more than a week left, because we aren't done yet.

(H/C)

House finished another square of fudge as Jensen sat back down. "Not bad for a kid cook," he said.

Jensen smiled at him. "I'll pass the message along."

House immediately tensed up. "I didn't mean . . ."

"Relax. I know what you meant. And like I said, I'll pass the message along."

House munched another square, then reclosed the container, once again starting to fiddle with it. "We could spend all day talking about funerals, but there are other things I need to tell you," he said, completely ignoring the fact that he was the one who had selected Wednesday as an opening topic in the first place.

"Okay," Jensen prompted when House hesitated for several seconds. The diagnostician looked at him with slight confusion in the blue eyes. "Give me a hint. What was I supposed to say there?"

"Lisa said she told you all about Wednesday."

"Yes, I'm pretty sure she did."

"So aren't you going to tell me how stupid it was to jump to the conclusion she was going to kidnap me again _and_ to decide just to let her do it?"

"No," Jensen replied firmly.

House shook his head. "You're a shrink. You're _supposed _to analyze stuff like that."

"Is that _specifically_ still an issue that is bothering you?"

House looked away. "No. That's one of the best things that's happened all week. The way it turned out, I mean."

"That's what I thought. Just for the record, I don't think it was a stupid conclusion for you to jump to, and I'm not at all surprised that you decided to let her do it anyway. But as you pointed out, our time is limited today with a lot going on. So let's not spend it performing an autopsy on problems that are completely finished."

House was startled for a moment. The idea that two different people now had no wish to spend time berating him for a fairly significant mistake he had made was still a new concept for him. "Dad always . . . he never let me forget anything I was wrong about. Had to hammer the point in, over and over, how I'd screwed up."

"Dr. House, do I look like your father?" Jensen asked. "Or does Dr. Cuddy?"

Laughter broke through like the sun from behind clouds. "Hardly," House replied. "You a little more than Cuddy, of course."

"So, what else did you need to tell me?" Jensen prompted, nudging the session back toward the priorities House himself had mentioned.

House sighed and took a swallow of his coffee. "Yesterday morning, Foreman came back to work. He accidentally heard me acting like nothing had happened for Andrews, and he got pissed."

"He didn't attack you again, did he?" Jensen asked, concern overlying the professional persona for a moment.

House gave him an odd look. "Do you _really_ think he has anger control problems in general? Not just with me?"

"Yes, I do. How did he respond?"

"He was pissed, like I said. But I took him into the office after sending the other two off for tests, except that Kutner hung around to spy on us." Jensen mentally awarded Kutner a few bonus points. "I tried to explain without going into details that what he'd heard actually had nothing to do with Hadley. I told him I was sorry about her death and also told him I'd gone to the cemetery."

Jensen was impressed. "That's quite good, Dr. House. You are making progress, even if that word sorry still has overtones for you. You do remember that Dr. Hadley's death was not your fault, right?"

House gave the Tupperware fudge container a particularly vigorous spin in his hands. "Yes, damn it. But it still shouldn't have happened."

"How did Dr. Foreman react?"

"I don't think he believed me. He was expecting me to fire him, almost challenging me to fire him, but I just told him to go back to work."

Jensen gave a mental sigh of his own, carefully concealed. House _was_ making progress, but he still clearly did not consider assault on himself to be a sin. "Did he apologize to you for Friday night?"

"No. Actually, he said specifically that he wasn't going to apologize to me, yesterday and this morning, too. He was almost defiant about it."

"What happened this morning to give him the context?"

House tensed up even more and gave the fudge a high toss. Jensen reached over to snatch it out of mid air. "I'd hate to have to explain to Cathy what happened to her gift if the lid came off." The psychiatrist set down the fudge on the floor, then got up and went over to retrieve the guitar from the wall. Coming back, he handed it to House.

House accepted the instrument but looked up with that sardonic flash of humor he showed sometimes peeking through the tension. "You'd rather have me throw this instead?"

"You wouldn't. I trust you." Jensen sat back down. "What happened this morning?"

House's hands were already irresistibly exploring the instrument, fingering the chords, seeking its voice. He struck up a light blues tune. "Haven't finished with yesterday yet."

"Okay, go back to yesterday, but we are getting to this morning in this session today, even if we run late."

House was still tense, but his eyes and his face had softened with the music. He was always most at peace with an instrument. "Lucas called. He was going to Detroit to continue the chase, but so far, he's tracked Patrick through four women, including Melissa's cousin and Ann Bellinger. All of them single mothers with recent stress of some sort, all of the kids 3 to 4. Boys and girls. In every case except the current one, Patrick left after a few months, broke it off by letter. I think he only stayed long enough to break them." The music suddenly turned darker, more agitated. "Fear turns into . . . acceptance after a while. Resignation. Apparently, Patrick got bored with that stage." He struck a vicious chord, the instrument mourning along with him.

Jensen gave him a moment until the music picked up a clear melody thread again. "This is actually going to wind up being _very_ valuable. Not just in terms of your case. When Patrick's actions are proven, with this kind of history, he'll definitely do hard time, and also, all of those children can be brought to help _now_. Maybe some of the older ones, depending how far back this pattern can be traced, would even be candidates to talk to a court-appointed advocate at this point, although not directly give evidence at the trial, of course, not unless they're a good bit older. But definitely, we can get help for them. They won't have to go through decades with this festering under the surface. You're going to wind up helping an entire string of children here because you stood up to Patrick."

House took a deep breath. "Would have been better if they hadn't had to deal with the monster at all."

"Yes, it would have. But the fact remains, your actions will be the catalyst that brings help to them."

The music was drifting back into thoughtful blues. "I'm keeping Patrick distracted at the moment, too. He hasn't moved on yet. I asked Lucas to try to get one of the break-up letters or a picture or something if he can find one. Something to prove to Ann Bellinger. He said he'd get me as much as he's got so far this weekend. Then Mom called. Did Cuddy mention her idea to you?"

"Not in detail. Just that she had one."

"She has a retired PI who eats lunch at the senior center, and that man mentioned that Kentucky PIs have to have fingerprints on file. So she got the idea of fingerprinting the therapy notes, since it would be hard to copy them with gloves on."

Jensen felt the surge of satisfaction himself. They were closing in with this case. Patrick _was_ going down soon. "That's an excellent idea. No hired burglar would hold out on identity of the man who paid. He'll cut a deal."

"Right. They did find fingerprints and matched them, and there's a set all over those notes that belongs to a shady PI. He's moved, but they've got a warrant out for him and are watching for his car."

Jensen nodded. "We're really making progress with this case. The end is in sight, Dr. House."

"I _hope_ so," House said fervently. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take."

"What happened this morning?" Jensen asked again, following House's own thoughts.

"Wait for it. First, one more thing from yesterday. Cuddy came back up later and ran into Foreman."

Jensen settled back in his chair. "I assume she was less inclined to forgiveness than you had been."

House grinned briefly. "She was the classic ticked-off administrator. She is _hot_ like that." He couldn't help the additional comment. He had always loved watching Cuddy in a battle. "She tried to make him apologize to me, but she let that go when I chimed in. But Foreman has a week to begin seeing a therapist, and he has to stick with appointments for 3 months. If he fails on any of that, he's fired without a reference and she tells the details of what he did before being fired."

Jensen was glad to hear it. "This is for the best, Dr. House. He does need help; it would be impossible to have as efficient a working relationship between the two of you now if he is just shoving things down and refusing to deal with them."

House tilted his head, looking over at Jensen, the music suddenly questing for the next thread of melody. "Do you really think he might turn violent? Not just with me, I mean."

"Yes, I do."

"Cuddy said he was a liability to the hospital."

"He is. He truly needs help, Dr. House. I just hope he accepts it."

"So do I. Cuddy thought he was even thinking about slapping her for a minute there. But then he . . ." House's voice trailed off, and his eyes fell to the strings, watching the guitar as if it were the most fascinating thing on earth.

"What happened this morning?" Jensen prompted again.

House sighed. "Apparently, Patrick is getting frustrated with the non response at the hospital. Actually, they _are_ all talking, but at least they aren't doing it in front of me, and several of them don't believe it at all. Cuddy and I are trying to play things purely business-as-usual. So Patrick made his next move." House fell silent again, still watching his hands, and Jensen didn't prompt him this time, letting him take the time to collect himself. "Andrews must have gotten into the office early - Cuddy's going to check on that - and he dumped carpet glue in the corner."

Jensen felt the white-hot stab of anger and reminded himself again that the writing was on the wall for Patrick, the case closing around him. The man would be caught soon. "What happened?" he asked.

His tone was less than calmly professional there, more like furious, and House looked up in surprise. Jensen looked truly ticked off himself. "I didn't go in," House assured him. "Foreman came out and warned me. Guess he remembered how much it bothered me last time, and this was apparently a lot stronger."

"Good for him," Jensen said. The anger was still smoldering, but at least House hadn't had a bad flashback in the middle of the morning hospital routine, which clearly had been Patrick's intention.

House shook his head, both annoyed and confused. "He's still mad, though. He even said later, when we were getting set up in a conference room Cuddy gave us for the day, that he still refused to apologize. So _why_ would he help me out? That was the perfect revenge for him; he had a ringside seat."

"Because even somebody who is both in the middle of grief and mad at you realizes that childhood abuse was _not_ your fault," Jensen replied. "Now that he's got more details from the papers, he no doubt was filling in the blanks himself from your old actions. He also realizes now even more strongly that somebody is deliberately on a campaign against you, using your childhood as a weapon. But even he cannot blame you for your past. It's not a failing, Dr. House. It's a tragedy. The fact that you survived will even increase people's respect for you once they know."

House let his fingers wander through the music for a minute. "I still hate this. What if . . . what if next time, it works? I nearly had a flashback this morning anyway, just out in the hall _thinking_ about carpet glue being in there. The whole team saw it. Couldn't have missed it."

"And did they ridicule you and call you a weakling?" Jensen picked the last word deliberately, wanting to gauge House's reaction. He did flinch, but not as much.

"No. Kutner . . . touched me. Put his hand on my arm and asked if I was all right. He kept me grounded."

Jensen nodded. "Because the present _is_ stronger than your past. And you need to keep in mind that the present is full of people who genuinely care for you and respect you. Knowing your history will not change that for them."

House looked up at him. "I decided to just change the whole carpet. Time it was changed anyway. The old one had stains on it."

Jensen smiled. "Good for you."

"Lisa was furious. You should have seen her eyes; I think she would have _killed_ Andrews or Patrick either one if they'd been in her office. She was all business, though, said she'd get the carpet changed, gave us a spare conference room in the meantime. But I couldn't really settle to work for the rest of this morning. _Taub_ even solved the case."

"Which proves that you're teaching your fellows well. Don't you want them to be able to solve cases themselves?"

"Well, yes, but after I do."

"Cut yourself some slack, Dr. House. You are doing a wonderful job handling everything at the moment, and this _will_ be over soon."

"That's what Lisa said to me once they were gone. By the way, I decided on the drive up here what I want to do to Patrick."

"For yourself, you mean?"

"Yes. Well, for them, too, but the perfect payback. Once he's inside, I think I'll hire somebody to post details of his convictions and history on the walls in the exercise room, and the cafeteria, all the common areas of the prison. Get his story out on the public grapevine, since he's so fond of that process." His smile was almost predatory.

"Excellent, Dr. House. That's perfect. He fully deserves it, too. Hopefully he'll learn for himself what fear is on the inside." Jensen glanced at his watch. They were already over time, but House was relaxing now, past the main point of tension. "Is there anything else you needed to talk about today?"

House shook his head. "No."

"One final question. Are you still hearing your father's voice?"

The guitar's voice still momentarily, then resumed, almost defiant. "Sometimes. Quite a bit at the cemetery. A few times since then, but it's softer now."

"Good. Just remember, he was wrong. You are strong, as well as courageous, and even Dr. Foreman recognizes that. Next Friday is the day after Thanksgiving, and I have Thursday and Friday completely off. Those days are reserved for my family. I will have a colleague on emergency call for me if needed, and he's quite good. But would you like to reschedule your appointment so we don't miss next week?"

"Yes." House finished out his current song with a flourish and then let the guitar stop. "I'll have a house full of company myself those two days. What's the rest of your schedule like?"

"We could do Saturday, or sooner, you could have Wednesday at 4:00."

House looked up quickly. "What about Wilson? That's his slot."

"He called me this morning to reschedule sooner. I'm seeing him Monday."

"Good. High time he stopped denying everything. I think Sandra's pushing him now, too; she knows something is up." House offered the guitar back to Jensen, then collected the fudge container from the floor and stood up stiffly.

Jensen was returning the guitar to its holder on the wall. "And _please_ keep me updated on events before then. Hopefully more will happen with the case this weekend, both in Detroit and in Kentucky."

"I hope so. Tell Cathy thanks for the fudge."

"I will. And thank _you_, Dr. House."

House gave him a brief nod, then turned away, limping out of the office.


	56. Chapter 56

Short update typed out while, for variety, the server is actually up, but we're out of work. Same result = no $$ earned. Sigh.

(H/C)

"I've been waiting for your call. I was about to come looking for you. You wouldn't like that."

"I wasn't avoiding you; I had a complicated patient, and I ran late. I am a doctor, you know."

"And how did the little performance this morning go? Is the hospital getting a better idea of how pathetic he is now?"

"Well, um . . ."

"Answer the question. _Now._"

"It didn't quite . . . go to plan."

"You _moron_! How could you possibly screw that up? All you had to do was dump a puddle of carpet glue on the floor in his rooms."

"I _didn't_ screw it up. I did everything you said. But it didn't _work_!"

"You're stalling, Andrews. You don't want to make me mad. Tell me what happened."

"I . . . got in early like you said and put the glue there. I had a patient page, so I couldn't watch, but there were a lot of people all around, so I knew there would be witnesses. They've been talking about it the rest of the day, only . . ."

"Andrews, in 10 seconds, I'm hanging up the phone and coming over to your house to discuss things _personally_."

"He didn't have a flashback."

"What? That's impossible. That's supposed to be one of his strongest triggers."

"Maybe your information was wrong, wherever it is you're getting this stuff."

"My information couldn't be wrong. You said the hospital was talking about it all day. So _something_ happened."

"House threw a fit. Not a flashback fit, just a House fit. He marched down to Cuddy's office and demanded new carpet so loudly that her secretary heard him. And that's what he did a few years ago when the carpet was changed on him; he made a big dramatic production about it, working with his team all over the hospital, refusing to go to his office until he had the old carpet back, getting in everybody's way. So today, everybody's talking about how eccentric House is and how this is just a House thing. They weren't even talking about his background as much today. Just how crazy and unpredictable he is - first he can't stand carpet a few years ago, now he suddenly demands carpet. They give up trying to make sense of him."

"_"

"Are you still there?"

"That's impossible. He _had_ to have a flashback. He zones totally out, becomes nonresponsive, gets locked into the past. He even trembles and curls up on the floor with the bad ones."

"He was anything but nonresponsive."

"You must have done it wrong somehow. You didn't put enough on the floor."

"I spilled a good bit! This isn't my fault. Your information is wrong."

"My information is _not_ wrong. This plan can't fail. Well, like they say, if you want something done right, do it yourself."

"What are you going to do?"

"None of your business. But keep your ear to the grapevine next Monday and let me know. There should be a much better performance Monday morning when he comes in."

"I didn't make a mistake with it."

"It would be in your best interests to shut up, unless you really want to discuss this in person."

"_"

"Report back to me Monday night. You may hang up now."

_Click_

(H/C)

Wilson leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes. Death-bed scenes were unfortunately a common part of his job, but he never got hardened to them, never considered it routine. This one had been like the rest, although each had individual variations, too. The woman with an odd peacefulness on her face, the children around. The children were crying as the vital signs fell, one son still pleading with her to hang on, to fight. Wilson had stood in the door, riveted. He asked her a few times if she was in pain, if the medicines were working well enough for her, but most of the time, he just watched. At the very end, Mrs. Olson's eyes snapped from half mast to fully awake, and her whole face lit up with a 1000-watt smile. "Sam!" she said, calling, actually _greeting_ her dead husband. In the next moment, she had fallen back, an empty body in the sheets, suddenly smaller. People often looked smaller after death, as if the mass had decreased at that very moment when the spark of life snuffed out. Her adult children cried as if they were young again, and Wilson stepped forward to go through the motions of what he already knew and call time of death.

Later on, they had thanked him. As she had earlier. They had _thanked_ him.

He had to remember that he owed House ten bucks. Having the family thank you after their parent has died certainly counted.

Yes, he had such a bedside manner. Everybody told him so. If only his success in that area could extend to relationships. He remembered the way her face had lit up as she saw - or thought she saw, at least - her dead husband. After 53 years, she hadn't grown tired of him.

Would Wilson ever find that kind of devotion?

He heard a plate set down on the end table next to him, and then Sandra's hands started working on his shoulders, massaging out the tension. Wilson rolled his head slightly, giving her better access without opening his eyes. "You're an angel."

"Funny, that's not what one of my patients this afternoon said while I was catheterizing him."

Wilson's eyes opened then. "Thank you so much for that image."

"Do you feel like eating anything?"

He looked at the plate next to him. A sandwich, made just as he liked them and cut perfectly diagonally across. "I guess. I'm sorry about lunch." They had simply eaten together almost silently, avoiding serious conversation at his request. He just couldn't face talking about things there in the cafeteria.

"It's okay. I understand you were having a rough day with Mrs. Olson on top of . . . whatever else it is. House and Cuddy backed out anyway, probably over whatever was behind his carpet fit. Maybe we can all do lunch some time this weekend."

"Maybe." Wilson sighed. "Sorry I was late tonight, too."

"I know you wanted to wait with her until it was over. I'm glad you're set up with Jensen Monday, though." She gave his shoulders a final rub and came around to sit next to him. "But you _can_ talk to me in the meantime. Maybe not tonight, when you just lost a patient, but if you feel like it, you always can."

Wilson's thoughts drifted back to Mrs. Olson. "I think she saw her husband at the end. She called him, anyway. You know she'd been married for 53 years?"

Sandra reached across him to retrieve the plate and pushed it into his lap encouragingly. "That's wonderful."

He took a munch of sandwich, once again wishing for a relationship that lasted. Where would he be in 53 years? Old and in a nursing home, most likely. Would he have memories that still brought a 1000-watt smile to his face? Would anybody come to visit him?

Impulsively, feeling abruptly that he _had_ to grasp onto something and make it permanent, he blurted out through a mouthful of sandwich. "Sandra, will you marry me?"

Silence. Not the response people want to that question. She looked thoughtful; maybe she hadn't understood the words with his mouth full. He chewed and swallowed, then repeated it, enunciating carefully. "Sandra, will you marry me?"

Still silence. "Not now," she replied finally.

Wilson felt irritation rising. "Not _now_? That's not one of the options. You're supposed to say either yes, hopefully, or no. There isn't a category for not now." She was still studying him with concern in her eyes but also with reservation. "Damn it, do you want me on one knee? Is _that_ the problem? I don't have a ring, but I'll get one. Here." He shoved the sandwich aside, the plate landing upside down on the couch cushions, and knelt in front of her. "Will you marry me?" Sandra looked torn. "It's not a hard question. Yes or no?"

"Not now," she repeated.

Wilson slumped back into the floor. "Why _not_?"

"Because . . . because I'm not sure why you're asking, but I am pretty sure that it's for the wrong reason."

"I love you, damn it," Wilson snapped. "Isn't that the best reason of all?"

"I love you, too," she said, "and I'm not saying no, James. I'm just saying not now, because you are running away from something and using this as a dodge. Starting out a marriage like that wouldn't be fair to either of us. When you ask me, I want you focused on _me_, not on whatever it is you're afraid of."

Wilson looked down at the floor, defeat washing over him. Sandra leaned forward and gripped his shoulders. "James, _please _tell me what is wrong."

"I . . . not now." He grasped her own words as a lifeline. "I will, but not yet."

She was growing impatient; he could tell. "You _are_ keeping that appointment with Jensen Monday," she insisted. "And if things don't start getting better fast after that, I'm going to insist that you talk to me. It's affecting _both _of us by this point; you need to deal with it. But James, once you've worked out whatever you need to work out, ask me that question again sometime, okay?"

He had to force himself not to groan aloud. She certainly never would say yes, not after having the full picture. Wherever he would be in 53 years, the one near certainty was that he would be alone.

(H/C)

At the House residence, Cuddy was thinking of the distant future herself. She was nestled in the recliner watching her family. House, on the couch, was reading a bedtime story to the girls, Rachel sitting against his side and following his moving finger as he traced the words, Abby in his lap and snuggled back against him, Belle on the other side and watching his finger as if she, too, were reading. The girls had stubbornly resisted sleep until his return from Middletown, wanting to spend some time with him. They were rapidly heading down the road to slumber now, though. House's reading glasses were slipping down his nose slightly, and he pushed them back up, then looked over at Cuddy. She smiled at him reassuringly, imagining school and graduations and weddings down the road for her daughters, imagining House with them, a family, and for a few minutes, she could forget about Patrick.

The cell phone rang as he was almost at the end of the story. House didn't want to move and disturb the girls, and Cuddy heard his silent request and got up herself to retrieve his phone from the coffee table, glancing down at caller ID as she stepped into the kitchen. It was Blythe.


	57. Chapter 57

Hi, readers! Very good weekend past filled with Christmas concerts, and I enjoyed the break and even did earn some money singing. Music and writing are my two releases. All else - work, family, etc. - is still in turmoil, and of course I was short for hours on the week, even though I tried to work all weekend in and around music. But at least there was SOME enjoyment in those two days, not just frustration. The good thoughts are appreciated. Enjoy 57.

(H/C)

Blythe sounded high as a kite, like a kid at the circus. "Lisa? Oh, Lisa, this is SO exciting!"

Cuddy closed her eyes and debated throwing the phone through a window herself. "_Exciting_? Blythe, this isn't a mystery novel, and we aren't enjoying ourselves, even if you are."

Blythe obligingly backed off, sounding sorry, and Cuddy felt an unwilling stab of guilt. "I'm . . .I apologize. I didn't . . . I mean I know it's not a book, even if it seems like one, but I was just so happy to . . ."

Cuddy sighed. "Blythe, is there something you wanted to tell us?"

Blythe sounded tentative now, wary of Cuddy, all her early enthusiasm knocked out of her. "I . . . is Greg there?"

Cuddy walked back into the living room. "It's your mother. She thinks this is all exciting." House rolled his eyes, but she couldn't miss the flash of desperate hope in them, the longing for some good news, some progress, some closure. He looked at down at his drowsy daughters. "We were just getting the kids to bed, Blythe. He'll call you back in a few minutes, okay?" The last word was a question to House as much as to Blythe, and House nodded.

"Okay, Lisa. I'll be here."

Cuddy hit off. "I apologize, Greg. I think she has something to report, but the way she sounded, like she was watching a good movie or something, I couldn't help snapping at her."

He was looking down at the girls still. "I'll take any kind of progress for the moment, including delivered by singing telegram with the messengers in ridiculous outfits."

"I know." She came over and ran her hand along his scruffy cheek, and he leaned into her. She could feel the tension in his jaw underneath her hand. Jensen had helped, but today from the carpet glue on had had him on edge, and he still was wired. He had been so apologetic when asking her at lunch if they really had to go out tonight. Friday night was usually their date night, but she knew he didn't feel up to facing anybody else new, even oblivious strangers in a restaurant. She had willingly canceled it for a family night at home, not feeling much like going out herself. "Come on, Greg. Let's get the girls to bed."

He looked down at them, and she saw the thought flash across his face. He couldn't stand up out of the couch cushions while holding them. She picked up Rachel, the heavier, and saw the fact register in his eyes. He moved Abby over gently, heaved himself to his feet, got his balance set, then picked her back up. Side by side, they walked back to the nursery. The nightly routine of putting the girls down seemed especially poignant tonight, and House simply stood there looking at them sleeping for a moment when they were finished. Cuddy firmly wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her, and he leaned into her briefly, then abruptly pulled away and went back to the living room, retrieving his cell phone. He sat down on the couch, too tense to stretch out along it and ease his leg. Cuddy debated, then sat down in the chair, facing him, not crowding him but definitely there. If he had wanted to talk to Blythe privately, he would have taken the phone to the bedroom. He wanted her listening, at least to his side, even if he had to fill in the blanks later.

"Hi, Mom." There was no enthusiasm in the greeting, only tension and an undercurrent of hope.

"Hi, Greg. Did you get the girls to bed?" Blythe sounded like she was about to burst, but having been jumped by Cuddy for excessive spirit, she was carefully trying to keep her tone routinely family.

"Yes, we did. Has something happened?"

Routinely family shattered, replaced once again by adrenaline. "Oh, yes, it has. Tonight I usually go to my travel group, you know, only I just didn't feel like it with everything going on, so I stayed home. I had the lights off, though. Just lying on top of my bed thinking."

House sighed. She had been so stiffled during marriage that he knew talking about things extensively was a new pleasure to her since her father's death, but he still wished she would hurry up to the point. "What happened, Mom?" he prompted.

"Well, I was just lying there, like I said. It had gotten dark not long before. I was thinking, and suddenly I heard somebody out on the back porch trying to pick the lock."

House straightened up so abruptly that his leg protested. One thought shrieked over all the tangle of the others. Patrick, having failed at carpet glue, had decided to go after his family members. Cuddy, watching House's expression, immediately got up and moved over beside him, sitting down right next to him, letting him feel the contact. He looked almost like he did on the edge of a flashback. She slipped her arm around him, pulling him over against her.

"Greg?" she asked softly.

"Greg?" His name in stereo, Blythe's voice in his other ear. He blinked. "Are you still there?"

"Yes." He started breathing again, although too quickly now. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Gregory, perfectly fine. Do you really think I'd call it exciting if I was hurt?"

"WHAT HAPPENED?" His shout hurt his own ears and no doubt hurt Blythe's and Cuddy's, too.

"I'm okay, Greg. Relax." Blythe was trying to sound soothing now, more sidetracked into concern for him than her tale. "It's all right, dear. Everything's okay."

"What happened?" he demanded, trying not to shout this time, but the urgency of worry was there.

"Well, I reached over right away to get the bed phone. I had that installed after my accident, you know, since I'm not as fast as I used to be. I called 911 and told them there was somebody breaking in, and then I just got up and hid in the closet until they came. They were very fast, though; there was a police car not far away. And oh, Greg, it was the PI! They got him!"

House had had no doubt who it was. "He didn't hurt you, though?"

"No, Greg, I'm perfectly fine. I don't think he even knew I was home; he was searching through the living room with a flashlight when the police came, and they came in quietly. Surrounded the house, then came in both ways at once, and they caught him red handed! Then when they ran his ID, it hit the warrant for the break-in at my psychiatrist's office, so he's arrested on multiple charges now. I'm sure he'll give up this man who was after you once they get him processed and start leaning on him in questioning. So we _got _him, Greg. It's all right."

House was still breathing quickly. The PI in jail was a good thing, but Patrick accelerating his campaign was not. John's voice abruptly spoke up, reminding him, "I will kill her, and it will be your fault."

Cuddy was really getting worried now. She could feel him starting to tremble. "Greg," she said softly. She lifted the arm around him to rub her hand along his upper arm. "Greg, stay with me. Come on." He jumped slightly and looked over at her as if startled at her presence. She smiled at him, still rubbing his arm, and he leaned into the contact, steadying himself against it.

"Greg, did you hear me?" Blythe asked, excited once again. "We've _got _him. Red-handed! There's no way he'll get out of this; they actually caught him in the act of a burglary."

"I . . . yes, I heard you. That's great, Mom." His voice sounded shaky.

"Greg, are you okay?"

"Fine. Look, I've got to go, but keep me updated, okay? They'll be questioning him tomorrow. Let me know whatever they tell you - or your psychiatrist."

"I will, Greg. I'm so glad, though. This is almost over."

He closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, too. Good night, Greg."

He hung up, then leaned over into Cuddy, his whole body shaking now. She wrapped him completely in her arms, trying to surround him with a cocoon of love. "Easy, Greg," she soothed. Details could wait, although she gathered that the PI was caught. She needed to get him calmed down first. "It's okay."

His breathing was jagged. "Patrick . . . is coming after my family." The words were muffled against her shoulder, but she still caught them.

Immediately, she looked back down toward the nursery. "The PI tried to hurt Blythe?" Okay, obviously he wasn't going to calm down until working through the details of this, and her own worry for the girls was adding now to her worry for him.

"No . . . broke in . . . she was in the bedroom." He was trembling as if in the grips of a private earthquake. "Called 911 . . . they caught him. . . but he was _there_. . . all my fault. . . just like Dad said."

Cuddy gave him a sharp shake, anger fueled by worry suddenly overwhelming her. "You listen to me, Gregory House. Don't you _ever_ tell me your father was right about something again. This is NOT your fault."

He pulled back enough to let her see his eyes. They were horrified. "He came after her . . . what if the girls . . . or you? All because I . . ."

His breathing was really getting uneven now, too much effort yielding not enough oxygen. "Breathe, Greg. Easy, in and out. You need to breathe."

Her soundtrack was competing with John's at the moment, she realized. House was trying to fight his father's voice, but his own fears for his family were adding ammunition to John's past brainwashing. Cuddy removed one hand from him to fish in his pocket, pulling out the pill bottles still there from the day, finding the bottle of Ativan Jensen had given him. She fumbled at the lid, snapped it off, and pulled one out. "Greg, take this." She pushed the pill up against his lips but no further, letting him take the final step. He hesitated for a moment, then accepted it, holding it under his tongue. Cuddy pulled him against her again with one arm, the other hand resting on his wrist, feeling his pounding pulse gradually slow. "Easy," she said. "It's okay, Greg. Just breathe."

Slowly, his breathing leveled out and the encroaching gray fog of terror and guilt retreated. Cuddy's voice, though softer, was stronger than John's. He leaned into her. "M'sorry," he mumbled into her shoulder.

"It's okay, Greg. You have nothing to be sorry for." His head was buried against her, and she kissed the top of it. "Easy. Just breathe for a minute, okay?" He stayed still in her arms now, and she held him tightly. She didn't speak until the trembling had almost stopped. "So the PI broke into Blythe's place, and the police caught him?"

"Yes. He's going after my family now." House shivered again.

"Remember to keep breathing. Let's look at that a minute, okay?" She was trying to stay rational, although her own gaze kept drifting back toward the nursery. "I'm sure it took the police a few minutes to get there, even if they were close. But he didn't try to hurt your mother. He was probably just getting something else Patrick wanted."

"Mom was hiding in a closet."

"If he'd meant to hurt her, Greg, he would have looked for her. A closet is one of the first places he'd try. What was he doing during the time before the police came? Did she say?" It was a guess on Cuddy's part, but Blythe certainly hadn't sounded stalked or traumatized, just excited.

"He was looking around the living room with a flashlight."

"He was after something, Greg. Some _thing_. Not her. Just some other weapon Patrick wanted to use against you. He's focused on you, not the rest of us." Not that that thought was too comforting to Cuddy, but she knew it would help settle House. "In fact, your mother should have been at her travel group tonight. That was even in the therapy notes. Patrick _knew_ that. The PI knew that. Great time to pick for a break-in."

House was starting to think through it now. "That's right. She said she didn't feel like going, but she was just lying on her bed in the dark thinking. If the car was in the garage, it would have looked like nobody was home."

"Right. Hopefully the police can get him to tell what he was there for, but I'm _sure_ it wasn't to hurt your mother. Patrick is just trying something else since the carpet glue failed."

House pushed back far enough to meet her eyes. "I couldn't take it if he hurt you or the girls."

"I know. And we are _not_ going to let him hurt the girls; he'll have to go through us first. But I really don't think he's trying to, Greg. He was just after materials to set another trap for you. But no matter _what_ he was trying to do, this is NOT your fault. Come on, tell me that," she urged, borrowing a page from Jensen's strategies. She knew House was supposed to be contradicting John's voice now.

He studied her for a moment, looking admiring now as well as still somewhat scared. "I love you," he said.

"I love you, too. But just at the moment, I wanted to hear something else."

"This isn't my fault," he mumbled softly, his eyes falling again.

She lifted his chin with her hand, forcing his eyes back to hers. "I really do love you, Greg." She leaned over to kiss him.

A minute later, he broke apart long enough to insist, "But we _are_ setting the security system tonight. And tomorrow, and as long as it takes until Patrick is in custody, and we are being extra careful with the girls."

"Absolutely agreed. And hopefully that won't be too long. We're winning, Greg." He still looked a little shaky, and she once again pulled him tight, just holding him.

Not much later, they went to bed, carefully setting the security system on the way and once again checking the girls, who were sleeping peacefully, wrapped in innocent dreams.


	58. Chapter 58

Short update, but that's as much as we get today. Thanks for the reviews. :)

(H/C)

Overnight, the snow came down, blanketing the earth. Cuddy stared out the window at the blazing whiteness as she sipped her post breakfast coffee. The girls were playing together with Belle in the floor. House, returning from the bathroom, came up beside her. "Yes, they fixed it right," he said. He was still very edgy this morning. He had refused to take the sleeping pill last night until he had one round of nightmares first and only then agreed on her promise that she call 911 the second she heard anything unusual and then go to the girls, leaving him to fend for his drugged self. Cuddy had slept with one ear open herself, but the night had been peaceful after House had finally gotten sound asleep.

"Fixed what right?" she asked, puzzled.

"The window," he replied impatiently. "You were looking right at it."

She sighed. "I was looking _through_ it, Greg. I was just admiring the snow."

His eyes fell to his coffee cup. "Sorry."

"I've told you not to say that to me," she objected. She put her free arm around him, pulling him over tightly against her. "I always loved watching snow. It makes the world look new again. All the scars covered over."

"Only until the traffic drives past it and people tramp over it for a few days." House shivered. To him, snow had one meaning only, even before the infarction added logistical difficulties. It was cold. The memories of nights shut outside settled over him in a dark counterpart to the white blanket outside. Cuddy felt the thought and gave him a squeeze, not saying anything further. The tragedy of a childhood where everything beautiful, everything valued was systematically destroyed struck her all over again, and once more, she wished that John House weren't dead just so she could have the pleasure of killing him.

"Piano, Dada," Rachel demanded, getting tired of her current game.

House shook off the memories and went over to the gleaming, dark instrument. "What song?" he asked, sliding onto the bench.

Rachel stretched out her hands wide as if holding reams of music. "Piano!" She loved all of it.

House debated, then started a jazzy version of Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow. The girls were at rapt attention from their blanket in the floor. Cuddy sat down to listen, enjoying the music, but she could tell how unsettled he still was. Not only the possible threat to their daughters, although that was bad enough, but he really didn't seem to see the progress he had made. She could tell he was once again at times feeling like a burden to them as well as a threat now. At least the PI was caught, and Patrick would hopefully be in custody in a day or two. This was almost over. She closed her eyes, savoring the thought. Almost over.

"You okay, Lisa?" House asked. His playing never faltered - he was on Winter Wonderland now - but he had noticed her close her eyes.

"Fine. I was just thinking, this is almost over, Greg."

His nimble fingers tripped just slightly on the keys, then resumed the rhythms. "I hope so." He made a run across the whole keyboard as if to apologize for his momentary error, and Abby, on the floor, laughed. Cuddy stood up to take her coffee cup to the kitchen, and while she was there, she slipped out her cell phone and sent a quick text to Jensen. _Please call Greg for an update some time today, but not in the next 30 minutes._ She didn't want the timing to be too close to her brief kitchen absence. She returned promptly to the couch and sat there listening to him play. Abby scrambled over and tried to climb her leg, and Cuddy scooped her daughter up, winding up eventually of course with Rachel, too. Plus Belle. It turned into a family concert, with them the lucky audience for her husband's talents. She marveled again how much of himself House put into music.

Jensen called about 45 minutes later, at the point when House was starting to become aware of how long he had been sitting still on the bench, his leg encroaching onto the music. He pulled out his cell phone, then frowned at it slightly. "Jensen," he said, standing up. "Wonder what he wants." He was already limping back toward the bedroom, though, the opposite of his reaction with Blythe last night. Right now, he _wanted_ privacy on the conversation, which was telling in itself, and Cuddy distracted Rachel when she tried to follow him.

"What's up?" House asked as he entered the bedroom and closed the door.

"I just wondered if there was any news yet from either Lucas or Kentucky," Jensen replied. "You were hoping for some this weekend."

"Nothing from Lucas. If I don't hear from him tonight, I'll call him. Mom called last night, though." House sat down on the bed, carefully working his leg into position, then gave the psychiatrist a fairly unedited version of all that had happened Friday night.

Jensen listened quietly, soaking it in. "I don't really think he'll go after your family members," he said at the end. "He wants to break _you_. Doing it indirectly by hurting others wouldn't be half as much fun for him. Maybe as a desperation move at the end when he realizes he can't break you directly, but I don't think he's that close to giving up his original plan yet. He's still trying on the first version. He has to be completely baffled, but his arrogance wouldn't let him give up on the hospital as his main battlefield this quickly."

"That's what Lisa said, sort of. That he was after something else, not after Mom."

"She was right. Not that you shouldn't be careful, of course, especially with the girls. I know I would be worried about Cathy and Melissa if I were in your shoes."

House shook his head. "I nearly lost it again last night, just thinking about Dad and what he'd said. Lot of good I would have been to my family if somebody broke in right there while I was fighting off a flashback."

"Did you hear what you just said?" Jensen asked.

"I'm not deaf yet," House snapped. "Of course I heard it. I was saying a lot of good I would have been . . ."

"Not that part. You said you _nearly_ lost it again."

"Exactly."

"Dr. House, do you realize that that makes _twice_ yesterday, first the carpet glue, then last night, that you did _not_ have a full-scale flashback, even in the face of a very strong trigger?"

House snorted. "Only because of other people, Kutner and then Lisa. Plus Ativan."

"In other words, you stayed grounded through connecting with the support system you now have available around you."

"You're making it sound _good_," House protested.

"It _is _good. Don't you see how far you've come? You know that support system is there now, and you're willing to use it. Should I tell you what I think would have happened if Patrick had come breaking in that moment right after your mother's call?"

House hesitated, his curiosity piqued. "What?"

"I think all of that tension would have been translated instantly into action, and you would have half killed him with your cane."

House grinned suddenly, liking the thought. "You really think so?"

"Yes. Trust me, in a direct threat to your family, you would not be stuck back rehashing the past while someone was hurting them."

"Unless I was totally drugged out like last night."

"But you took steps even then - the security system, for instance. And honestly, Dr. House, I doubt drugs would keep you totally down if your family were shouting frantically for help. I don't think Patrick is after them, not yet, but even if he were, I have no doubt you'd fight for them, and fight quite well. You aren't going to be paralyzed by your past in a crisis with them. Even when they weren't threatened, you didn't have a flashback yesterday morning with the carpet glue and didn't lock up then. You're getting better."

House sighed. "I know. I still get to feeling so _useless_ sometimes, though."

"You're far from useless, and your family knows it. Why don't you go have a piece of fudge and then play with the girls? I'm sure Rachel at least would love to play in the snow. Cathy's out building a snowman in the yard right now."

House shivered. "I don't . . . like snow. It's cold."

"I understand that. But Rachel doesn't. To her, it would only be pretty and fun. Something she would enjoy doing with her family."

"Maybe. Wait a minute, you're not even taking your own advice. If your family is outside building a snowman, why are you wasting time talking to me instead of helping them?"

"I was out there - I only had one appointment this morning, and that one canceled. But I came in to warm up for a few minutes," Jensen replied. "Like you said, it's cold. We aren't as young as they are anymore."

House laughed, suddenly feeling included into the world of fathers and of humanity in general with that _we_. "Get back to your kid. I'll take Rachel out, if it would make you happy."

"It will make _her_ happy. Keep me updated, please. Hopefully Patrick will be arrested before long."

"Any advice on talking to Ann Bellinger, by the way? Once we have proof from Lucas, I mean."

"Take Dr. Cuddy with you and let her do the talking. I'm sure Patrick has been poisoning her mind against you, but I doubt he would have wasted as much effort with Dr. Cuddy. She's more likely to start listening with her."

House nodded. "Lisa would probably want to go anyway."

"I'm sure she would. Go play with your children, Dr. House. Your daughters don't even know about Patrick or your father, thankfully. Don't let them deprive the children of a good family Saturday."

"Okay, okay. I'm going. Talk to you later." House hit off, then sat there on the bed for a moment before shifting his leg over and hauling himself to his feet. "Lisa!" he called as he opened the bedroom door.

Cuddy appeared at the end of the hall promptly. "What is it, Greg?"

"Why don't you get Abby bundled up, and I'll put Rachel in her snow suit. Let's go outside with the snow."

She smiled. "That sounds like a great idea. We'd better both bundle up, too. By the way, Wilson and Sandra are coming over tonight for dinner. They called. What did Jensen want?"

"Update on the case." House passed her in the hall, tickling Abby on his way by and enjoying her laugh. "Rachel, how would you like to build your first snowman today?"

Rachel smiled up at him, caught in the excitement. "Yes!" she shouted, her automatic response to almost any how-would-you-like-to question (except for going to bed). "Frosty?"

House rolled his eyes. Damn Christmas cartoons. No snowman he could contribute to had a chance of matching up. "Sort of. I'm afraid this one won't talk or sing. But I'll try to help you, as much as I can, which isn't much. In fact, it will be my first snowman too."

Rachel didn't seem discouraged at all at the prospect of a nonvocal snowman built with the assistance of her crippled father. "Yay!" She ran circles around the couch, and House, watching her, felt a surge of love that for the first time since last night was not shadowed by worry but was bright and pure as the snowfall outside.


	59. Chapter 59

A/N: Merry Christmas, readers! I was working yesterday and today, but there was also waiting for work or waiting for server time, too, so I did get to write down another chapter. I already know that the 26th will be a very tough day. Not sure if I'll get a chapter written down tomorrow night or not; depends on whether I want to be distracted or am too wrung out even for that. If not, we'll start fresh next week. Hope everybody has either family around them or at least good memories of Christmases past to bask in.

(H/C)

It was a very long day for Wilson. Sandra dutifully didn't push too much on the subject of what was wrong, but she reminded him twice that her forbearance lasted only through Jensen Monday and that without very quick improvement in Wilson's clear perturbation then, she'd insist. The genuine concern in her eyes along with the confusion twisted sharply in him every time he looked at her. Overriding everything was the thought that this was probably their last weekend together. He knew that things wouldn't get better after talking to Jensen. The best the psychiatrist could do was prepare him and then help him afterward as once again a relationship of his fell apart. Once he would have blamed House for driving a wedge between him and his significant others, but Wilson knew this time that he had absolutely nobody to blame but himself. It was that knowledge that had him squirming inside his skin all day, and it was also that knowledge that suddenly made him see all of Sandra's mannerisms that he had unconsciously grown to love over the months. He would miss her when she threw him out. The bitter thought occurred to him more than once that like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, he was trapped, forever running on the hamster wheel of relationships, never really getting anywhere, the same old ending inevitable.

House had achieved it. Mrs. Olson had achieved it. Hell, even Bill Murray had finally broken out of the rut, but every relationship of his seemed doomed. Either they left or they died. There was no other ending possible.

Sandra was even more worried by the way he was watching her as if memorizing the scene but with a distant expression in his eyes, too. It was actually her suggestion to have dinner with House and Cuddy. They usually got together at least a couple of times a month, but they hadn't been able to in the calamities of the last week, and she hoped that the familiarity would help settle down Wilson, who looked like he was working diligently on an ulcer. Wilson grabbed onto the suggestion immediately, calling Cuddy to invite themselves, and he spent the rest of the day talking about House, filling Sandra in on some background. He had protected House's privacy carefully throughout the months of their relationship, which impressed her, he could tell - and felt guilty because she obviously regarded this as a positive trait of his whereas it was merely cringing reaction to how totally he had blown things in telling Blythe. He did conveniently leave that part out of the House history. But the cat in general was hopelessly out of the bag now, with the whole hospital swirling in rumors, and Sandra had a genuine concern for House and a genuine hatred of gossip. He figured even House would agree she could be trusted, and he knew she wouldn't go all sympathetic and Cameron. But for today, House's history made a great alternative subject to try to distract her from wondering what his own problem was. She was horrified, and by the time they left, she was almost as worried about House as she was about Wilson. Almost.

The streets were fairly cleared by late afternoon, although the yards were still tucked under the white blanket. A snowman was in the front yard at the House residence, and Wilson stopped to admire it, his famous goofy grin, as House called it, spreading across his face for the first time that day. The snowman was definitely an amateur effort, although a meticulous one, showing both Rachel's enthusiasm and House's methodology. But the outstanding feature of this snowman was the cane. It was an older one of House's, not one of his main ones, but it was firmly, almost proudly gripped at the snowman's side. Wilson chuckled.

Cuddy opened the door to their knock. "Keep it down," she cautioned, very softly. "The girls are still down for their afternoon nap, and Greg was just answering the phone."

"That's a unique snowman," Wilson started, sharpening his verbal skills in anticipation of the evening.

Cuddy's extended finger landed sharply in the center of his chest, and he retreated half a step. "Don't you dare tease him on that. Rachel insisted, and he was feeling self-conscious enough by the end anyway."

Sandra smiled. "Rachel insisted?"

Cuddy nodded. "She thinks it's something _special_, as he put it. She thought it would be an improvement over the basic one, something only the best ones have. He was trying to explain to her that the hat wouldn't make it sing and dance like in the cartoon, and she suddenly decided that a snowman with a cane would be even better than one with a magic hat. She was perfectly happy by the end, but Greg is imagining everybody driving by staring at it." A passing car slowed, right on cue, and she could see fingers pointing. "He wouldn't understand that they thought it was cute."

"Okay," Wilson agreed, though still grinning. "The words 'cute' and 'adorable' are officially off limits for the evening. But I sure hope you got pictures."

She nodded, her smile suddenly widening. "Most of a full roll. It _was_ adorable to watch them."

House's voice abruptly rose behind them, penetrating the soft conversation on the porch. "Are you sure? When? . . . I realize that, Mom . . . yes, I know . . . what was it he wanted? . . . what on earth would he do with that?. . . all right, Mom . . . I will. . . Love you, too. Bye." The others had entered the living room by now and were watching him. The tension of the last week was carved deeply into his face, and his body looked like a coiled spring. Wilson immediately and without regret did firmly banish the words 'cute" and 'adorable' even from his thoughts for tonight. Cuddy was right. House couldn't take much more strain at the moment.

Cuddy walked over to sit down beside him on the couch. All of the stress pushed at least partway to the background by Jensen and the girls today was now back at the forefront. She picked up his hand, tracing his long, musician's fingers, letting him feel her touch. "Greg, what is it? That was Blythe?"

He nodded. "Patrick is now officially wanted in Kentucky."

Cuddy felt like cheering. "So the PI rolled over?"

"Pretty quick, soon as they started leaning on him."

"Wait a minute, they caught the PI?" Wilson asked. He dropped into one chair, and Sandra moved toward the other one but didn't yet sit down. House's gaze suddenly flickered to her, considering.

Wilson opened his mouth to explain that Sandra was as up to date as he was, which wasn't to the minute, apparently. Sandra spoke first. "I'll go back and check on the girls if you want, House."

House's eyes widened slightly. To willingly lay down curiosity was incomprehensible to him. Yet there she stood, without a trace of preference, leaving the decision entirely to him, giving him back the control over the situation. He looked down, but she saw the flare of respect and admiration in his eyes before they shifted away. "Oh, hell, you might as well stay. Everybody knows all about me now. Some of them probably know more about me than I do, even."

"I try not to confuse gossip with facts," Sandra said, taking the other chair. "And I certainly don't confuse Reginald Travis with facts. James has told me - some things - today, but you don't have to let me in on any more if you don't want to." Cuddy was looking directly at her, and Sandra heard the silent thanks as clearly as if it had been spoken.

"I hadn't told her anything until all this came up." Wilson jumped in quickly to defend himself from the one error that it seemed he hadn't made lately. "All these months, my lips were sealed."

House took a deep breath, looking back up at the other two. "Might as well hear the rest of it, then. The PI was caught last night in Lexington."

"They made his car in traffic," Wilson guessed.

"No, they caught him red-handed breaking into Mom's house."

Sandra immediately looked worried. "Is your mother all right?"

House's breathing had accelerated some, and Cuddy, still holding his hand, tightened her grip. "She's fine. He wasn't after her." He looked at Cuddy, speaking to her directly. "He was hired to steal something, like you said. He thought Mom wasn't home. She shouldn't have been."

"What was he supposed to steal, Greg?"

"A picture of Mom and Dad together. Not me, just the two of them. He was having trouble finding one, because Mom . . . rearranged her pictures lately and took out several. That's what took him so long in the living room. Lots of pictures there, but trying to go through them all with just a flashlight . . . that's why he was caught."

Wilson frowned. "What did Patrick mean to do with . . ." He trailed off at a glare from Cuddy, but House still answered.

"I don't know." He shrugged, but he was unable to prevent his mind from chewing into the differential. "He was supposed to steal it and overnight it to Patrick, paying extra for Sunday delivery so he'd have it by tomorrow. This must be a step up, since carpet glue failed, but . . .what?" He looked back to Cuddy, who had nudged him in the side.

"It doesn't matter what he was going to do with it, Greg. He won't be able to."

"I wonder if he knows his plan has gone wrong," Sandra put in. "If he wasn't expecting the package until tomorrow, maybe he doesn't realize the PI is arrested yet."

"Hopefully he'll be arrested himself by then," Cuddy emphasized. "This is almost over, Greg. And Lucas still hasn't checked in; he'll really sink Patrick. We're winning. It's almost finished."

House frowned, looking at his watch. "He should have called by now."

"He might be snowed in," Wilson suggested. "This storm was worse up north and west of here. Detroit got hit pretty hard. Even Middletown got worse than we did; I hope I can get to Jensen on Monday." He pulled himself up sharply. Damn it, he hadn't meant to bring up his own situation, although the hopeful thought had indeed occurred to him that he might be able to extend Monday's appointment due to weather.

House, of course, promptly grabbed the offered hilt of the knife and gave it a twist in the wound. "Don't worry, Jensen does phone sessions, too. I'm sure he'll be glad to talk about whatever you need to on Monday."

Sandra looked from Wilson back to House. "So," Wilson said quickly, "the PI rolled over on Patrick?"

"Yes. He's confessed to breaking into the psychiatrist's office, stealing the notes, and breaking into Mom's. Says Patrick hired him for all of that. All their conversations were by phone, which adds wire fraud to the charges. Kentucky has issued a warrant for Patrick on several counts, and they do want extradition. Hopefully the Princeton PD will get that processed quickly."

"You might not even need Lucas, House. If the police show up to arrest Patrick, Ann Bellinger will realize what he is."

House shook his head. "I can think of all kinds of stories he could spin for her. Just a mistake, revenge by an old grudge, etc. He's _good_, Wilson, and he's got her wrapped around his little finger. If she's out at the store or something when he's arrested, I doubt he'd even tell her he was, just leave her a note saying he was going out of town for a few days. His one phone call from jail would be to Reginald Travis, not her. No, we need proof from Lucas on the kids and the past women. She won't be able to deny that."

Just then, Rachel woke up, and they heard her call down the hall. Cuddy stood, and Sandra jumped up quickly. "I'll help you with them," she offered, and Cuddy nodded.

The two men were left alone. Wilson quickly reiterated the pertinent point, wanting to make sure his innocence was clear. "I hadn't told Sandra anything about you, House. All these months. Not until she knew about the abuse anyway from the papers."

House looked at him. "I believe you," he said. "But you probably enjoyed the distraction for today, anything to talk about except you. You still haven't told her, have you?"

Damn it, why couldn't House leave it alone? Wilson's voice dropped. "She knows something's up, but she's giving me until I talk to Jensen. Not sure I can put it off much longer past that."

"Shouldn't have put it off this long, you idiot. You need to talk to _her_, not Jensen. You're just digging the grave deeper. Talk to her."

"I know what's going to happen. She'll kick me out, and it will all be over. Again. She'll never stay past this. I even tried asking her to marry me . . ."

House's voice rose. "_You asked her_ . . ."

"SHHHHHH." Wilson's frantic command would have made Rachel proud.

House obligingly dropped the volume, but he doubled the sarcastic disbelief. "You asked her to _marry _you? Now? With this _elephant_ in the room between you?"

"But she doesn't know about the . . . the elephant. I thought maybe if we were engaged, she'd listen a little longer before kicking me out."

House shook his head. "At least she had the sense to turn you down, apparently. She gets more impressive all the time. Wilson, I take back what I said. You do need to talk to Jensen - and her, too, but yes, Jensen. Sometimes I think you're even more screwed up than I am."

Wilson felt the agitation abruptly boiling closer to the surface. "Yes, I probably am more screwed up than you, but _you're _still the one who gets the woman. How? How can you _possibly_ beat me every single time at this?"

House was staring at him. "Every single time? In the score column, for attempts, anyway, you've got several laps of the track on me. And Wilson, I have bad news. If you want my wife, you can't have her."

Wilson sighed. "I don't. I just want . . . _somebody._"

"Well here's a news flash for you. You _have _somebody. You've got by far the best one of all of your previous, as far as I'm concerned. You're just throwing her away."

"I am _not_ throwing her away. She's throwing _me _away. Or will. I'll never be able to apologize for this. She wouldn't even let me begin; soon as I tell her, it's over." Unless . . . Wilson abruptly remembered Sandra's statement regarding John House's funeral, that she hoped Wilson had apologized thoroughly and with humility and shame to House. What if she had a live example fresh in mind of how well he could apologize when he had totally blown it? Would that make her give him a chance? "House, do you still have that letter?"

House shook his head firmly. "No."

"You threw away that letter? Do you have any idea how long I spent . . ."

"Not no, I don't have it, but no, I'm not giving it back. You can't use that to advertise your apology skills. If you're so big into letters, write _her_ one."

Wilson's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Some friend you are."

House was just in the wind-up to pitch a particularly scathing reply to that when the cell phone rang. Wilson was forgotten instantly as House pounced on the instrument like a cat on a mouse, getting it after just one ring. "Hello?" House sat straight up, the tension pouring off him like a waterfall. "Lucas. What have you got?"

(H/C)

Back in the nursery, Cuddy had gone quickly to Rachel. Sandra went to Abby's crib, reaching over the rails to tickle the little girl, who laughed at her. "Cuddy," she asked, "do you know what's bothering James?"

Cuddy's posture answered before her words did. "I . . . yes. Not that he told me willingly; I just sort of tripped across it."

"I know House has worked it out, but he's House. James absolutely refuses to talk to me yet, but I can tell he's chewing himself up over this. He said he needs to talk to Jensen first to get it sorted out in his mind." Cuddy sighed. Sandra looked back up at her. "I did ask him if he'd just decided he was tired of me and didn't love me now, and he said that wasn't it. Can you . . .?"

"That wasn't it," Cuddy confirmed. "Sandra, I'll tell you what. If he doesn't let you in on this after he sees Jensen, come back to me then, and I'll tell you what's going on."

It was Sandra's turn to sigh. "I just wish he'd tell me himself. This is so _frustrating_. Thank you, Cuddy." She started changing Abby's diaper automatically. "James was telling me today about House. I can't even imagine; there aren't words for all that. How is he doing?"

"He's . . . he's getting through it, but I hope Patrick gets arrested quickly. Greg has already had to deal with more than anybody should ever have to in life."

"He is healing, though? Before this, I mean, as much as anybody could heal from that."

"Yes, he is. He's making a lot of progress in dealing with things."

"He's even more remarkable than everybody knew." Sandra studied Abby, seeing House's eyes with the overlaid innocence which House's never had. Silence filled the room for a few minutes. "How could a parent do things like that?" she wondered aloud.

"I don't know." Cuddy finished changing Rachel and set her down on her feet, and Rachel predictably ran out of the room, off to find her father. Cuddy reached over for Abby, Sandra passing her the child, and they started back toward the living room. Cuddy heard her husband's voice with one word jumping out, Lucas, and her stride lengthened.

House was still sitting on the couch, and Rachel had scrambled up beside him. One arm was around her, the other holding the cell phone. "Okay. . . right . . . as soon as possible. Sooner, in fact. Keep me posted." He hit off and looked up at Cuddy. "Lucas is snowed in at Detroit airport."

Cuddy groaned. "What about the roads?"

"He's looking into it, but they're pretty bad, too. Hopefully planes will get out in another day." House looked down at Rachel, his hand fingering her dark hair. "Lucas has tracked Patrick back through five more women, bringing the total to nine. Same pattern, every one of them a single mother, all of the children between 3 and 4. He's got a picture from one and a letter from another somehow, he said. Hopefully enough."

Cuddy's legs suddenly felt weak, and she dropped onto the couch, holding Abby more tightly. "Nine. . . "

"That we know of. Before that, he was apparently in the St. Louis area. CPS is going to have a field day with this one." House looked over to Abby, then back to Rachel. "Soon as Lucas gets back with the proof, we're talking to Ann Bellinger, and then we turn everything over to the police. They can investigate all of this while Kentucky is holding Patrick on the charges there." He shook his head, a sadness beyond the reach of tears in his eyes. "All those children . . ."

"They can get help," Cuddy reminded him. "Jensen told you that, remember? There will be help for the children now."

"Except Christopher," House said softly.

Cuddy flinched. "You couldn't have saved him, Greg. But for the others, there _will _be help."

Rachel, growing tired of the conversation she didn't understand, scrambled down and trotted over to Wilson's chair. "Wilson." She grabbed his sleeve and tugged toward the door. "See my snowman?"

Wilson smiled at her. "I already saw it, Rachel. I saw it when I came in. It's a great snowman."

"With a cane!" She released Wilson and went back to House, reaching out to pat his third wooden leg. "Strong snowman. Like Dada."

House shook his head, blinking, and Sandra quickly stood up. "So, Cuddy, need any help with dinner?"

Cuddy gave House's hand a firm squeeze and then passed him Abby and stood up. "It's almost ready." She started to follow Sandra toward the kitchen, but she hesitated as she passed Wilson's chair. "Wilson," she said sotto voce, "if you won't talk to her once you see Jensen, I will."

Wilson cringed and shrunk into the chair, but she had already continued on to the kitchen, the words dropped in a quick shot on her way by. He looked quickly to see if House had overheard, but House was paying attention to Rachel. Distracted from the cane by now, she was clearly trying to explain something else to him about Belle, and House was bent over, listening attentively, though his body was still a coiled spring of tension. Wilson shut his eyes for a moment, feeling the doors of the cage slamming all around him. Cuddy had been deadly serious; there was no possible escape now from telling Sandra. Here surrounded by a family, Wilson felt even more keenly the fact that he would never have one.


	60. Chapter 60

The weekend passed agonizingly slowly. House spent the day Sunday periodically checking the weather channel, then comparing it to the internet for Detroit, calling Lucas a few times for an on-site reading, then grumbling about the inefficiency of a city that he concluded hadn't been ready for the first major snowstorm of the year. Cuddy tried to pacify him until he snapped at her, then just tried to ignore the topic. Not that she minded anything he might say, but he didn't want sympathy and understanding; he wanted results. She didn't want to push him to saying anything under stress that he would only feel guilty about later. Sometimes, the best solution with House was still to give him space "to be a jerk in," as he once put it.

Rachel wound up being a nice distraction herself. She wanted a second snowman, and House supervised the construction of another that afternoon, although he refused to provide a second cane. Rachel decided then that the second one could be Cuddy. This led to construction of a "snow cat" to add into the growing snow family on the front yard, but Cuddy did step in when Rachel wanted Belle to come out and admire her likeness. Belle, of course, like any self-respecting cat, cringed back from the blast of frigid air every time the door opened and retreated to burrow more deeply into whatever nest of warmth she currently occupied.

Lucas called late that night, after House had finally given up on further news for the day. They had been in bed about an hour, and Cuddy was in the first deep stages of sleep when the cell phone rang. She fumbled for it, pouncing toward the phone as her body reacted while her mind was still waking up, and she dropped the thing. Climbing quickly over House, she retrieved it and answered. "Hello?"

"Hey, Cuddy. Is House there?" It was the first time she had spoken to the PI this week, and she was struck immediately by his tone. All of Lucas' boyish innocence and nonchalance seemed to have evaporated. He sounded decades older.

"He's here, but he already went to sleep." She gave House a pat in apology for diving over him after the phone, then retreated more carefully to her side of the bed. "How's the weather?"

"Planes are finally starting to move. I'm on a flight out in an hour. Should land at Trenton around 2:00. Do you guys really want me to come over then?"

She looked at House, solidly out for a night of drugged non-dreams. "No, go home and take a nap. You can come over here about 8:30 or so. I'll just be late to work. Marina will distract the girls while we talk."

"Got it." He hesitated as if unwilling to hang up.

"Was there anything else, Lucas?" Cuddy prompted.

The PI sounded uncertain how to phrase it, which for once she thought was absolutely genuine, not a front. "Those papers Chandler posted . . . is that . . . is House okay?"

"He will be," she said firmly. "Do you think you got enough to convince the boy's mother what Chandler is?"

"Unless she's totally in denial. I think it would have to convince anybody." And yet Blythe had still lived in the same house for 18 years with John and Greg and hadn't caught on, Cuddy reminded herself. The ability of people to subconsciously avoid what they don't want to believe is significant at times. "I'll see you in the morning, Cuddy. Tell House . . . well, just tell him I'll see him in the morning," Lucas finished, obviously concluding correctly that any personal message he could give wouldn't be appreciated.

"I will. Thank you, Lucas." Cuddy hit end, then leaned over House more gently to replace his cell phone on the nightstand. She slid back down under the covers, snuggling into him. "Greg, this is almost _over_," she promised.

It was still a long time before she got to sleep.

(H/C)

House had the door open in the morning even before Lucas was halfway up the sidewalk. The PI glanced at the snow family as he walked by, and he was smiling as he approached the house. The smile quickly faded. "House. Good morning."

"What have you got?" House demanded. His whole body looked tightened, as if somebody had turned all the screws a half turn too far.

Cuddy spoke up from behind him. "Come on in, Lucas. Sit down. Greg, we don't need to talk about this standing in the doorway."

House sighed and stepped away, providing silent invitation to enter. He was by this point ready to get a report from Lucas anywhere, including the middle of the main lobby at PPTH. Lucas went over to the couch and pulled out a file folder, handing it to House with no further comment. House opened it quickly, Cuddy sitting down right next to him so she could see the contents, too.

The first page was a typed list of nine names with addresses, names and ages of children, and dates. House skimmed it quickly, then turned to the next sheet. This was a handwritten letter. "Lucy, things just aren't working out. I'm moving on; don't bother trying to find me. Thanks for the memories. Pat."

Cuddy shook her head. "He always used the same name?"

"Yes," Lucas confirmed. "He was careful to move to a different area of whatever big city or a different region of the state each time, so unlikely the former women would bump into him, but he doesn't seem to have tried to hide his identity."

"Jensen thinks he can't imagine being caught or having his plans fail, that the possibility honestly doesn't occur to him," House put in. He studied the letter. "She'll recognize his handwriting."

"Look at the back," Lucas advised. House flipped the letter over. On the back was a handwritten addendum.

"This letter was given to Lucas Douglas by me on this date. I got it from my former boyfriend, Patrick Chandler, years ago." The note was signed Lucille Hampton and dated Friday.

Cuddy nodded, approving. "Preserving chain of evidence."

"I tried," Lucas said. "Pretty obvious quickly that this will all have to go to the authorities."

House nodded. "I want to talk to Ann Bellinger myself, but yes, we'll turn it over. I want this bastard in prison for a long time. They'll teach him a few lessons in there. So you told the women you were a PI?"

"The last three, yes. Told them basically that I'd been hired to track his past relationships and what I'd found. Recommended that they get help for the kids. They were still in shock, but hopefully they will get counseling for the kids once they start thinking again. I didn't see much point in hiding it by then; they certainly weren't still in contact with him and wouldn't warn him. They'll know what's going on anyway soon as the real authorities trace Chandler. They'll probably have to testify."

"Admitting this is admitting that they failed to protect their children." Cuddy flinched in sympathy, thinking of those horrified, guilty mothers. "I'm surprised this one had kept the letter."

Lucas shook his head. "She didn't specifically keep it. She's just one of those 'throw everything you don't want to deal with in a bottom desk drawer' people. There was plenty of other stuff 3 years old in there. She didn't even remember where it was until I was prying around specifically asking what happened to it."

House had picked up the last item in the file. A picture of Patrick, a woman, and a boy of about 4. House stared at it, feeling his blood turn to ice. Patrick's hand, resting on the boy's shoulder, a gesture that almost anybody looking at the shot would have taken as pride, but House saw the faint cringe of the child away from that unyielding pressure. The mother stood there beside them smiling, oblivious. The illusion of a happy family. It looked eerily like several pictures from his childhood, minus the military uniform. Patrick's hand. His father's hand.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped sharply, dropping the file contents as he cringed away. Cuddy pulled back instantly. "Greg?" His eyes locked on her and focused. "I'm . . . I apologize. I didn't mean to startle you."

House looked away, realizing that the file was now on the floor, and he bent down to pick it up. "It's okay," he said, trying to reassure her and erase the worry in her eyes. "It just . . . it's okay." He shot a quick look at Lucas, finding the sympathetic expression he'd expected there. Damn. His eyes fell back to the picture. It was upside down now in his hands, having landed face-down when it fell, and he saw for the first time the writing on the back. Names, dates, and signatures of the last three women in line, certifying that this was the man they had known. "They signed it."

Lucas nodded. "Hopefully Ann Bellinger will believe that."

House studied the signatures, then turned the picture back over, making himself look, then making himself look away. "This should be enough."

"Do you want me to keep going on it?" the PI asked. "I could go to St. Louis."

House shook his head. "We're going to the police now. Well, to Ann Bellinger, but then on to the police today. Hopefully they've already arrested him anyway; he's wanted in Kentucky as of this weekend for paying somebody to break into Mom's therapist's office and steal her notes."

"So that's how he got . . ." Lucas trailed off at a glare from Cuddy. "Right. Okay. I'm officially off the case, then." He stood up but hesitated on his way to the door. "Let me know when he goes down."

House willingly let his sarcasm take over, trying to eliminate the other man's pity. "What kind of a PI are you if we have to tell you what happens on matters of public record? Do a little work on your own time. The internet is a great invention."

Lucas grinned. "Right. I'll know. But . . . if there's anything else I can do, you've got my number. Okay?"

House nodded shortly. Cuddy stood up to follow the PI to the door. "Thank you, Lucas."

"You're welcome." Lucas turned back at the door, looking once at House, then away. "Good luck with the woman."

"Thanks." Cuddy shut the door after him, then returned to the couch. House was studying the picture again, and she reached out to take his hand, carefully not putting a hand on his shoulder this time. She couldn't believe she'd done that in the first place, especially since she'd seen the similar picture herself in Blythe's house. "Greg?"

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Not diving down the rabbit hole again." He didn't pull his hand away, though, and she stroked his fingers, not saying anything. "How pathetic was I there?" he asked finally.

"You weren't . . ." Cuddy changed tactics as he glared at her. "You just went quiet. You didn't do anything that looked odd. You were just thinking. I apologize for touching you like that just then; I should have known better."

"Oh, drop the guilt fest," he replied, and right then, the cell phone rang. He picked it up eagerly, had a brief conversation, and when he hung up and looked back at her, his eyes were shining. "Patrick was arrested this morning about an hour ago. Mom doesn't know if the woman was there or not when they picked him up, but Patrick's down at the station waiting for his ride to Kentucky."

Cuddy felt the smile spreading across her face. "Kentucky might wind up having to fight New Jersey for him."

House was smiling himself. "They can take a lesson we've been trying to teach Rachel and take turns. And don't forget Michigan." He stood up. "Since we're already late to work, let's be later and go find Ann Bellinger."

"There's nothing I'd like better. My appointments can take a number." She called down the hall toward the nursery where Marina was keeping the girls occupied. "Marina, we're leaving now. Okay?"

"NO!" Rachel's voice answered her call, drowning out Marina's acknowledgment.

House suddenly started back down the hall. "I'll say goodbye to the girls first."

"You already . . ." Cuddy trailed off as he limped away.

He returned a few minutes later. "Okay. Let's go nail this bastard."

Cuddy hooked her arm through his left one, and side by side, they left the house.


	61. Chapter 61

A/N: Morning readers! Work is out yet again, so you get a chapter this morning while I wait for more work. Couple of quick points before the conversation with Ann Bellinger. First, House is facing CIVIL charges in Patrick's lawsuit. While the lawyer, and in fact House himself while drugged, can toss around terms like medical homicide, if there were in fact evidence to file the actual criminal charge and get a warrant for arrest, they would not be dealing through civil court. Jensen and Cuddy have even pointed this out, that the lack of a criminal charge clearly meant that they knew they didn't have enough proof to go to the authorities and get a warrant. Criminal charges require a much higher weight of evidence even to initiate them. They are filed by the legal authorities, not by individuals. Patrick, on the other hand, is facing CRIMINAL charges from Kentucky, quite serious ones, and is about to be facing criminal charges in New Jersey (and ultimately Michigan, etc.). There is a whole lot of legal difference in both process and in consequences between a civil suit for monetary damages for negligence and a criminal suit charging someone with a death.

Second, regarding Wilson, yes, we are going to get to that. This is, in fact, Monday in fic time when all sorts of stuff happens. Keep your shirts on. However, I forewarn you, Wilson folk, that Medical Homicide does not end with the Wilson story line "concluded" and wrapped up with a bow, because that kind of major issue cannot be "resolved" just by telling her. You will be left to imagine at the end what Wilson is doing with all this as time goes on. Will there be another Pranks story? Maybe. Right now, I don't know of one, but quite possible that down the road, there will be. Totally up to my muse, not me. If that story occurs, I'm sure the Wilson line will be picked up again, though always as a subplot to the main House one, and you will learn more about what has happened and what is happening. But Wilson folk will not get an "answer" for how things ultimately turn out long-term in this current story. So don't be expecting an "answer."

(H/C)

Ann Bellinger looked just as worried, soft, and tired as House remembered her from the hospital. She opened the door to their knock as if distracted, and it took a few seconds for identity to register. When it did, her eyes widened, and she tried to shut the door, but Cuddy had taken half a step forward, not pushing her way in but blocking the door closing. "Please, Mrs. Bellinger, could we speak to you for a few minutes?"

"What do you want?" she replied. She shot a venomous look at House. "Don't you think you've done enough to ruin my life already?"

"We are very sorry to be bothering you right now," Cuddy started, keeping her voice low key and sympathetic. "But there is something important that you need to know. Please, may we come in?"

Ann looked over her shoulder, obviously wishing for the advice of the one who wasn't there. "I need to talk to Patrick. Or the lawyer. I shouldn't be talking to you."

"Where is Patrick?" Cuddy asked.

"I don't know. I was out at the store early, and I just came back and found a note."

"He's been arrested," House stated. They had agreed that Cuddy would take the lead here, per Jensen's advice, but House couldn't help throwing the fact out there. She needed to know, and Patrick clearly hadn't told her. House wondered what manufactured excuse that note had made.

Ann's eyes widened, and her body tensed up in denial. "No. He just went out of town for a few days, he said. I'm not supposed to be talking to you."

"Arrests are a matter of public record," House pointed out.

Cuddy spoke up, trying to divert Ann's attention off House. Even without Patrick present right now, Ann's tension and denial level kicked up exponentially when he was the focus of her attention. Patrick had no doubt painted House in the blackest terms possible to Ann. "Mrs. Bellinger, I'm afraid that Patrick was arrested earlier this morning on criminal charges from Kentucky. But you don't have to take our word for that. He left you a note, you said, and I'm sure he wrote that while the police were waiting. Call down to the police station and say you just returned home and found the note from him. The police might not know what it says, but they will know that they arrested him at this address and he left you a note. Call down to the station and ask the police. Patrick is there being processed."

Ann shook her head. "No. You're just trying to get out of the charges against you somehow."

"If you call the police station right now and Patrick is not there, I will tell our lawyers to settle this case today for twice what you are asking," Cuddy stated.

Ann was startled. "_Twice what_. . . not that the money is what matters."

"I can't imagine the grief that you are feeling right now," Cuddy assured her. "Nobody can put a price on your son's life. I'm sure the money was Patrick's idea, not yours. But you want this to be over, right? It can be, today. Not the grief process, but the whole issue of us and the hospital. If Patrick is not under arrest at the station right now, we will settle immediately, and you will never have to hear from us again. That part can be over."

Ann hesitated, then said, "Wait here." Cuddy stepped back, and she closed the door.

"Nice strategy," House admired, sotto voce.

"Had to do something to start to crack her perception of Patrick." Cuddy shook her head. "That poor woman. She'll be feeling even worse when we leave than she is now."

House nodded, then turned to look around the front yard. No snow family here, no meandering tracks of play. Christopher would never enjoy another snowfall. Cuddy followed his eyes, seeing the wistful regret in them, and she gripped his hand between both of hers.

When Ann opened the door a few minutes later, she was sagging, propping herself against the doorway. "Come in." Her voice was almost monotone.

Cuddy entered with House sticking slightly behind her. Ann plodded to the living room and dropped onto the couch. "Would you like a cup of coffee? Cup of tea? Something?" Cuddy asked, worried that the woman was going into shock.

"Yes. Thank you." Ann made no attempt to get up, and Cuddy headed toward what she hoped was the kitchen door. House sat down in a chair, facing Ann. Her color wasn't good.

"Are you feeling lightheaded?" he asked her, switching into medical mode.

"No," she replied numbly.

House stood back up and retrieved a jacket from the coat tree, taking it to her. "Put this on," he urged. She obeyed, and House retreated to the chair again. Silence lengthened for a minute until Cuddy returned with a cup. She sat down on the couch next to Ann and pushed the mug into the woman's hands. Ann took a sip and jumped slightly as the hot liquid hit her numb soul. Cuddy just sat there silently for a moment, letting the other woman drink the tea.

Ann lowered the cup after a few gulps. "He lied to me," she said, her eyes going automatically toward a note on the coffee table.

"May I look at that?" Cuddy asked. Ann nodded after a moment, and Cuddy picked it up. It was in the familiar handwriting.

_Ann, something's come up, and I'll be out of town for a few days. I'll call you. Let Travis worry about the case. Pat._

"I'm sorry," Cuddy assured her sincerely. House flinched, realizing again that John had been right. The words made no difference. This poor woman's world was going to be shattered today, and no words of regret would ever change that.

Ann took another gulp of tea, then looked at Cuddy. "How did you know Patrick had been arrested?"

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Did the police explain the charges to you?"

"They said he hired somebody to commit burglary in Kentucky."

"That was at Dr. House's mother's psychiatrist's office. You met his mother at the hospital a few weeks ago, remember?" Ann nodded. "Patrick followed her out of the room and managed in conversation to get her name and the fact that she was seeing a psychiatrist. Later, when he was looking for proof of my husband's background, he hired a PI to break into that office and steal the therapy notes. That's how he had the background details."

Ann was looking confused. "He said that the whole hospital talked about Dr. House's background. That everybody knew, and he'd just heard it while we were there with Christopher. That everybody said he would get distracted a lot on cases."

Cuddy shook her head. "He lied. Nobody knew until he told them. He got that confidential information illegally."

"I don't . . . What do you mean, he told them?"

House sighed. Borrowing a page from Jensen, he spoke up. "I think we're operating on two different frameworks here. What do you think has happened since Christopher's death?"

Ann flinched at the mention of her son, but she answered the question. "After he died, Patrick told me how the hospital talked about your background while we were there, and he decided that was what distracted you. You were too busy filing false charges on him to work on Christopher's case. So he suggested filing the lawsuit. I didn't want to, but he said it might help other people down the road, might give you and the hospital a wake-up call that you needed to be more responsible. So we filed the lawsuit. He'd mentioned a conference set up for tomorrow, but he said the lawyer would take care of it. I'm just waiting for court."

House closed his eyes. Ann studied his expression, trying to work it out. "What's going on?" she asked.

Cuddy sighed. "First of all, think back to that case. Not what Patrick's kept hammering into you, but the day and the night you were there. Think about what you yourself saw. Do you think my husband wasn't doing his job and wasn't working diligently to help Christopher?"

Ann was silent for a moment. "He seemed to be working," she said finally. "But Patrick . . ."

"He lied to you." House repeated her own words.

Cuddy's voice was more gentle but carried just as much conviction. "Mrs. Bellinger, your son's death was a medical tragedy, but there really was nothing more that could have been done. Christopher was bitten by a mosquito, probably when playing in your back yard shed. From that point on, there was nothing that could be done but supportive care. West Nile encephalitis is extremely serious."

"He didn't like playing in that shed," Ann protested, not questioning at the moment how Cuddy knew that a shed was there.

"Well, he was bitten by a mosquito _somewhere_. It doesn't matter where. But my husband did his best on that case to save your son. Remember how he was there all night? How he kept trying to bring him back?" Ann nodded. House shivered himself, remembering the desperation of that code. All he'd tried hadn't been enough. "But as for my husband's childhood background, it was not public knowledge at the hospital. Patrick obtained that illegally, and then he had the legal papers distributed all over the hospital by internal mail. Everybody does know now, but only because Patrick told them. He's not interested in the eventual trial, which you will lose because there really is no medical case. He's using this case to try to break Greg through public exposure."

Ann was shaking her head. "That can't be right. Why would Patrick go after your husband if Christopher's death wasn't negligent?"

"He wanted revenge for having the CPS charges filed and for alleging abuse," Cuddy said.

"But the charges were dropped. They were false."

"I'm afraid they weren't," Cuddy stated.

Ann immediately started a full-speed mental retreat. "No. NO. He didn't . . . it was the clotting disorder. I couldn't have missed . . . NO!"

Cuddy put one hand gently on the other woman's arm. "I'm so sorry."

"You're making this up," Ann concluded, her chin coming up as she grasped desperately at another answer.

Cuddy picked up the file folder, which she had put down on the couch, and opened it. "We hired a private investigator to track Patrick's past relationships. Here is a list of the last nine of them. In every case, it was a single mother with a 3 or 4-year-old child, and in every case, the relationship lasted only a few months. Here are nine over the last four years, and there are probably more before that. Patrick would simply get tired of one child and move on to the next."

Ann stared at the list. "No," she repeated, but her voice was weaker now.

Cuddy pulled out the letter and handed it to her. "Patrick gave this to one of the women in the Detroit area. It's signed on the back." Ann studied it, then picked up today's note from the coffee table for a direct comparison, not wanting to believe her initial impression on the writing. "And here is a picture. It's also signed on the back by the last three women on that list identifying him." Cuddy handed it over.

Ann studied the picture, then flipped it over to the back to read the signatures, then looked at the front again. "I . . . my God, Christopher . . ."

Cuddy put her arm around the other woman as Ann's shoulders started to shake. "I'm so sorry," she repeated. Ann turned into her, unable to resist the contact as her entire picture of her son's life and her own protection of him shattered. She dissolved into tears, huge sobs wracking her body.

House sat there for a minute or two, trying to look anywhere else in the room, but finally, he stood up. Cuddy, even while attempting to comfort Ann, caught the movement and looked up at him with her own flare of concern. "I'm okay," he assured her softly. "Just . . . need to take a walk. I'll be around." He walked into the kitchen and took a lap of it, but he could still hear the sobs from the living room. This is grief, he thought. The kind of grief no mother should ever have to experience.

The kitchen overlooked the small back yard. Fleeing the raw emotion in the other room, House opened the sliding glass door and stepped out into the pristine snow. The bitter cold both assaulted him and steadied him. He wandered around the yard, eventually of course passing the three-sided shed, and he paused to study it. Snow hadn't drifted in much, with the back of the shed to the prevailing wind of the storm, and he studied the contents. It was the odds and ends of most yard sheds, a lawn mower, a few gardening tools, a coil of rope. A few paint cans were set out as well as the roller pans, which had obviously been full of water as they soaked after whatever painting project of the summer and now were full of ice. Those had been the mosquito attraction. House shivered, thinking of the ice, and turned away - then froze to alert attention. He turned back and repeated the move, isolating what had caught his interest out of the corner of his eye as he had turned.

A slight stain upon the rope. A familiar stain. House picked up the coil, studying it, seeing a rusty fleck on the rope fibers. A minute amount of blood, but it was blood. Possibly there could be hidden skin fibers trapped in the rough surface, too. Rope was a great material for collecting physical traces if its prisoner struggled at all, even slightly. Christopher had not had visible rope burns on autopsy, but that didn't mean that he hadn't weeks before his death been tied up and fought enough to break the skin in one spot. In fact, House would bet that any struggle _had_ occurred weeks prior, before Christopher started to realize the futility. House himself had quickly stopped fighting being tied, although John continued the practice, enjoying trussing his son up.

Ann's words echoed in House's head. Christopher hadn't liked playing in the shed. Because it held memories other than play?

John's voice. John's hands. Long, cold nights outside, but House himself had slept in the yard when he was shut out, not in their own back yard shed if they'd had one in whatever present house. That dated back to the incident in his childhood when he had rescued a puppy with a broken leg and hidden it in the shed. John had discovered it and tried to drown the puppy, though House had fought well enough to save its life by giving it time to flee. After that, the shed became a place of retribution, and House would have cringed at the thought of playing in it. He'd avoided it like the plague. No doubt Blythe would have said in all innocence that he didn't like playing there, as if reporting some personality quirk that was cute.

He wasn't aware how long he stood there, but he was aware of the heated tug-of-war between outrage at the present and memories of the past, and he was aware that outrage at the present won the battle. John retreated. House replaced the coil of rope, then turned quickly, ignoring the stab of pain up his leg that told him he had been standing too long in the cold. He limped back into the house, hurrying to the living room.

Cuddy and Ann Bellinger sat on the couch, separated now, Ann holding a fresh cup of tea. Her face was still tearstained, and she still looked horrified, but she was no longer collapsed into tears. Anger was starting to ignite in the eyes along with the oppressive guilt. Both of them looked up when House entered.

"I am _so _sorry," Ann started, and Cuddy saw House flinch and hurried to cut off Ann's apology.

"Greg, Ann has agreed to go with us to the police and CPS today. They'll reopen the charges of abuse against Patrick."

House shook his head. "We aren't only talking about abuse anymore. I think they might be able to charge him with murder."


	62. Chapter 62

A/N: I am not a lawyer. However, I did back when plotting out Medical Homicide consult a friend who is a former public prosecutor. Her input was very helpful, particularly on this chapter (and she would have loved a shot at Patrick herself). I am grateful to her. Sorry for any errors that slipped through anyway. Here's a short Wednesday update while the server is down.

(H/C)

"The statute you are thinking of is known as felony murder," the public prosecutor explained. "If a person is committing a felony, and in the course of that felony or even as a result of it later someone dies, that death can be prosecuted as murder in the first degree, even if it was an unintentional side-effect of the crime. Provided that the _original_ crime was felony level, any associated deaths become murder and are treated just as if the subject had premeditated those deaths. In a death penalty state, he could be executed. New Jersey has abolished the death penalty, but murder one is almost certainly life imprisonment."

House folded his hands on the table in the interview room and wished for his thinking ball. He could really use something to fiddle with right now. "So you _can_ charge him with murder?" he asked.

"Well, there's a complication in this case. The defense is probably going to claim that we couldn't possibly prove _when_ a mosquito carrying WNE bit Christopher, so it wasn't necessarily related to Christopher being tied up in that very mosquito-friendly location. The link of evidence between the death and the original felony is a bit speculative."

Ann Bellinger, who looked like she had aged 20 years during this day, shook her head. "I want him punished. He wouldn't even _see _me to let me tell him what I thought." She had wanted to confront Patrick herself earlier, against the advice of the police detective to whom they first spoke, but Patrick, being held elsewhere in the complex, had sent back a flat refusal on being notified of her presence. He had already lawyered up anyway, even before the message from Ann, and he wasn't saying anything to anybody. Since then, House, Cuddy, and Ann had been making reports first to the police, then to the prosecutor.

"Oh, believe me, I want him punished, too," the prosecutor assured her. "Like the police officer said, a team from the crime lab has already been sent to secure your house and the shed, and they will be thoroughly processed. We are also obtaining a search warrant for any of Chandler's belongings - I know that it is your residence, and you give permission, but I don't want to leave a loophole here for slick attorneys like Travis. Chandler was simply arrested this morning, without having his possessions in the house looked into, but with much more serious charges now, we will be diligent to obtain all possible physical evidence. I can certainly _try_ for felony murder, but that one might wind up being whittled down to a lesser charge. There is manslaughter, which can be applied if I can show that Chandler's actions showed 'extreme indifference to human life.' That takes a lesser burden of proof. The testimony that Christopher avoided the back yard and that shed, combined with the incubation period of the disease, do create a fair assumption that he was bitten there, _if_ he was bitten there, at a time that Chandler had him. We'll also be filing multiple charges of abuse, assault, sexual acts on a minor if we can prove any sexual intent. Sexual acts would bring it to a class one felony. It depends on how the investigation goes, but the material from Mr. Douglas is a wonderful start. The charges from Kentucky are significant, too; wire fraud is more serious than people think. We will try to cooperate with all involved states to run his sentences consecutively if the court agrees, which increases his collective time in prison."

Ann closed her eyes and moaned softly at the mention of sexual intent, and Cuddy, sitting between her and House, put a comforting hand on her arm.

"I also, of course, will be in touch with Michigan, and we will track this pattern as far back as we can through Missouri. Even if we eventually run past the statute of limitations, which we won't in Jersey or Michigan, we'll keep going. The older the victims are now, the more valuable their own testimony might be. Even if the crimes against the older ones are past statute of limitations, establishing the pattern would still be relevant to the more recent victims."

House shook his head. "You can't put young kids on the stand to talk about things like this."

"What would happen," the prosecutor explained, "is that a guardian ad litem will be appointed by the court. This is someone to represent the interests of the children. A court psychiatrist can also be involved and present his report. The children themselves are protected as far as possible from any further harm. Believe me, no judge will take kindly to the suggestion that young children testify. But they need to get help anyway; a psychiatrist whether court-appointed or not would be a good idea."

House nodded. "So between the abuse and the death, what do you think we're looking at here?"

"This is right at the start of the investigation, Dr. House. It depends greatly on what additional evidence turns up. But given that Chandler did not even use a different name, he seems to be the arrogant type who couldn't ever imagine being caught. Hopefully there is hard evidence out there. I'm optimistic going into this one, certainly looking toward a very long prison sentence, hopefully life."

Cuddy looked away from Ann to meet the prosecutor's eyes. "What about Andrews? Start leaning on him, and he'll probably roll over on Patrick and give you another witness. I doubt Patrick confided much in him, but anything helps."

"Now there we have a very good case, from what you've said. A police officer will go with you to the hospital and get the tapes, and we're working on a warrant for him. Certainly we can get him on property damage with the carpet, which is felony level, but as you know as an administrator, the real law with teeth in it for him is going to be HIPAA, which he falls under as a medical practitioner. HIPAA carries both civil and criminal penalties. The many levels of violation differ; for instance, if it wasn't 'willful neglect,' meaning it was an unintentional violation that just happened through circumstances, the penalty can be as low as $1000 per occurrence civil with no criminal penalties. But Andrews knowingly, and while at his place of work as a physician, spread personally identifiable information both regarding Dr. Hadley with physical issues and regarding Dr. House with psychiatric ones. That's as willful as it gets. Civil penalties are up to $50,000 per occurrence, and we can call each copy of the paperwork an occurrence. That easily hits the 1.5 million per year maximum on civil. On the criminal side, this falls into the highest category of spreading information for 'commercial advantage, personal gain, or malicious harm.' That's a fine of $250,000 per occurrence and up to 10 years in prison. Of course, Dr. House, you will have to testify."

House closed his eyes briefly, and Cuddy switched her comforting grasp to his arm. "Okay," he said softly. "It's all true, though. Everything those papers said."

"It is NOT all true," Cuddy emphasized. "His background, yes, but it did not distract him from that case. He did as much as he could for Christopher."

"I realize that," the prosecutor assured her. "The medical facts of WNE and also Dr. House's professional reputation will make that clear. But the truth of the background information actually helps us, Dr. House. It wasn't dissemination of a fiction but of actual truth. HIPAA charges can be far worse than libel charges. As a physician, he was obligated to protect your health information, no matter how he came across it, and instead, he published it widely and maliciously while on the job. Andrews should definitely be going to prison, and yes, he will make a valuable witness for us with Chandler."

An officer knocked on the door of the interview room, and they all looked up. It was the original police detective they had spoken to. "New development, Martin. When the team from the crime lab went to secure the house, they found Reginald Travis there breaking in."

"Wasn't he here with Patrick?" House asked.

"He left shortly after the message earlier from Mrs. Bellinger. Apparently, he hurried straight to the house and had picked up only one item. He was leaving and walked right into the police."

"What one item?" House's eyes lit up with hope as well as curiosity.

"Chandler's laptop."

The prosecutor's smile spread out slowly to envelop his whole face, like the Cheshire Cat. "Well, we now know what Chandler considers the most incriminating thing against him. I'll be interested in seeing what turns up in processing that."

"Did you ever see inside his laptop?" House asked Ann.

She shook her head. "He said he kept his business things in there; he was a daytrader, you know. He didn't want anybody to touch it."

House shifted in his chair and rubbed his thigh, although the move was distracted, and the gnawing ache in his leg didn't extend to the front of his thoughts. Cuddy noticed, though. She looked at her watch. It was 1:45, and he was well overdue for his meds. "Why don't we go pick up lunch somewhere on the way to the hospital? It's past lunch time. Ann, you're welcome to join us."

"We need to get to the hospital and get Andrews," House protested.

"We're still waiting on the warrant for him," Cuddy replied. "Come on, Greg. We need a break for a while. We can meet them at the hospital later." He caught the intent in her words that time, and he scowled, self-conscious still about any reference, even unspoken, to his leg.

Ann slowly stood up. "I don't think I could eat, but I guess I can't go back to my house right now. They're working on processing it."

"You need to eat something," Cuddy insisted. Feeling like mother at the moment to two full-grown children, she stood up and adopted her brisk, take-charge attitude. "Let's go, you two. Mr. Martin can call us when that warrant comes for Andrews - and with any further updates." House lurched to his feet, the leg protesting with more volume now that he had been reminded of it. "You're welcome to join us yourself, Mr. Martin," Cuddy invited the prosecutor.

He shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I have waited years for the opportunity to see Reginald Travis being arrested and processed. Wouldn't miss it for the world." With a near-predatory look of eagerness, he stood up himself and held the door to the interview room as the rest of them filed out.


	63. Chapter 63

A/N: Just a reminder that I am no longer watching House, haven't all season, which I point out again because it is specifically relevant to this chapter. I assume, since they were starting the Sam storyline back at the end of S6, that there might have been further details revealed in the course of their presumed continuing (until Wilson screws it up) relationship about their back history the first time and about Wilson's track record as a whole. Any of those details, I don't know. I also easily could have missed even pre end of S6 details given about Wilson's philandering and history, since cheating even once is to me unforgivable, and as it is established that he has in fact cheated in the past repeatedly, I would have sentenced him at the beginning of such scenes and not continued to listen closely. Wilson is very fortunate that I am not Sandra, LOL. If anybody I'm ever in a relationship with cheats, no matter how/where/why, they will come home to find their belongings on the front yard and the locks changed. Sayonara! Again, the story lines are the responsibility of my muse, not just something I decided to come up with myself, and I have no control over her. She surprised me with this whole subplot, but it does fit right along into the Pranks world as drawn. Anyhow, if background or details here don't match up to what you know from the show, just remind yourself that this is an AU, and I have license to fiddle with things a bit and have done so with far more than just Wilson's back story. :) Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter which I know some of you have anticipated even more than Patrick's comeuppance. Happy New Year to all!

(H/C)

Jensen was especially glad that Monday that he had the gift of concentration. He had always been able to compartmentalize, and that day, he badly needed the skill for his appointments. He was indeed totally focused on each patient during the session, but in between, his mind returned like a homing pigeon to the question of what was going on with the case. He had called Sunday afternoon for a further update. House had reported about Patrick being wanted in Kentucky and Lucas being snowed in, but House obviously hadn't wanted to talk, and Jensen didn't push him. The psychiatrist knew that further developments were likely on Monday, and he had to restrain himself a few times from calling during the day to check. Interrupting by phone certain events like the conversation with Ann Bellinger wouldn't help. Either things were now moving quickly, which he shouldn't interrupt, or they were not, in which case House would be far too impatient and frustrated to be receptive to discussing non-progress by phone. No, today's complexity made it one in which House should definitely initiate any contact.

The text message came about 2:00, fortunately while Jensen was between appointments, so he didn't have to postpone reading it. _Patrick caught. Talked to police. Lots happening; have to testify. Talk to you tonight. _

Jensen let out a sigh of relief, but he could already see the next obstacle looming, as could House himself, clearly. As the first person to suspect Patrick and the one who had started investigation into his background, plus the issue of Patrick distributing the papers, House would have to testify to events in the contest between them at any preliminary hearing and also the ultimate trial, probably several trials in different states, New Jersey included. There was no possible way to keep his own history out of it. He would have to state it in open court, a matter of public record, in front of not only the judge but whatever random citizens might happen to be there that day. Not only that, but since the other side had extensive knowledge of his issues and triggers, Jensen fully expected the defense attorney to use deliberate, subtle, unobjectionable cues to try to knock House into a flashback in public court, just so Patrick would have the sadistic joy of watching it as revenge for his own capture. Jensen and House both had their work cut out for them still.

Wilson slunk into the office for his appointment with all the enthusiasm of an errant schoolboy entering the presence of the principal. He sat down at his usual chair in front of the desk, but he remained poised on the edge of it as if he still longed to flee. "Okay, go ahead and tell me how much I've screwed up and how I'll never find a relationship that lasts," he started. Now that he was resigned to having his history dissected and his girlfriend lost irrevocably today, he wanted to go ahead and get it over with.

Jensen had been getting coffee for both of them, and he returned to the desk and offered Wilson's cup to him. "There are two parts to that sentence," he pointed out, "but taking them in order, why don't you tell me how you screwed up?"

Wilson spread his hands on the desk in frustration, nearly knocking over his coffee cup. "I blew it, okay? The same thing happened that always happens. It's over."

"So every relationship you've ever been in has ended by you cheating?"

"That or them dying. Sometimes it took them a few years to catch on, of course. Oh, and Julie actually cheated at the end on _me_."

"Had you cheated on her first?"

Wilson hesitated, his eyes falling. "Yes. But she didn't know yet."

"We've had a few discussions about Sandra but not for a while specifically about avoiding repeating your history. We've been more involved with Danny lately, and things seemed to be going well with her. Why do you think you acted as you did Friday night?"

"I was down thinking about Danny, like I said. I tried calling House, but he didn't pick up, and then I went out to drink that night, and it just happened. It's not like I sat down and entered cheating on my girlfriend into my agenda."

Jensen sighed. "James, I'm trying to help you here, but nothing you just stated is the reason for your unfaithfulness Friday night."

Wilson bristled. "You think I'm lying to you?"

"I think you're lying to yourself. Take being down about Danny. That appointment with me and subsequent visit to him took place on Wednesday. What were you doing between then and Friday night?"

"I was . . . House realized I was down. He took me out to lunch Thursday - he actually paid even. We talked a little bit, but not much, as little as I could. You don't _have_ to talk to House. He just deduces things."

"Did you talk to Sandra after that appointment?"

"Not about Danny."

"Why not?"

"I . . ." Wilson hesitated. It was the first time he had thought about the reasons.

"Did Sandra also realize that something was bothering you?"

"I know she did. She even tried to cook one of my favorites the next day. She really isn't that great at cooking, but she tried. And she did ask me how the visit had gone Wednesday night."

"What did you tell her?"

"Just that it didn't go well and I didn't want to talk about it."

"_Why _didn't you want to talk about it?"

"Because . . . I just didn't, okay? Geez, you're as bad as she is."

"So she persisted? Asked you more than once between Wednesday night and you leaving Friday morning?"

"Yes, she did. Amber would have kept browbeating me until I went into details, but Sandra . . .she's more quietly persistent, if that makes sense. She won't let it drop, but she won't nail me to the wall and force me to talk about something, either. At least I thought she wouldn't; she's getting pretty impatient about this, and she did give me an ultimatum that things had to get better after I talked to you, or she would put her foot down. And of course, they won't get better. But she's not as in-your-face about things as Amber or Cuddy."

Jensen tilted his head, his interest caught. "Why did you mention Dr. Cuddy there, James?"

Wilson immediately looked down and stalled for time, taking a few swallows of his coffee. Jensen waited, politely immovable. "She threatened me Saturday night that if I wouldn't tell Sandra after talking to you, she would. So she's taking matters out of my hands."

"Actually, she's giving you a chance to still talk to her yourself. Truly taking matters out of your hands would be telling Sandra herself before this. She also is allowing you talking through things with me first. It sounds to me like she really wants you to talk to Sandra; she doesn't want to have to step in. But back to your actions regarding Danny, it seems to me that you had ample opportunity to talk to both Sandra and Dr. House that week. They both specifically made themselves receptive and available. Why didn't you take advantage of that?"

"I just didn't want to talk about it."

"Because you think that things aren't totally real until you talk about them?" Jensen suggested. "Or because you don't want to feel like the one who needs others in any relationship?"

Wilson flinched. "Damn it, you're annoying at times."

"Sorry," Jensen replied. "Which?"

"A little bit of both, I guess. I just . . . I do better _giving _people things. Listening to them, not letting them listen to me."

"How many people do you think are involved in a relationship between two individuals, James?"

"Two, of course."

"Then why do you think that all need-flow should be one way? We've talked quite a bit about your family, how they let everything fall to you with Danny, but you _must_ realize in a relationship, whether friends or romantic, that it cannot be one-sided. It can't just be about you doing something for the other. Sometimes, the hardest part is letting them have a glimpse into _you_, letting them be supportive."

Wilson took another swallow of coffee. "Go ahead and say it. Even _House_ has learned that lesson better than I have."

"This isn't a competition, James, and I don't keep a score card and grade my patients on the curve. You have had a lot to deal with since we started therapy, particularly the shock of finding your brother and the bad prognosis with him. But tell me, since you brought it up, are you jeaous of Dr. House?"

Wilson closed his eyes, remembering his thoughts on the drive back Monday from Jensen's house. "Sometimes, yes. I mean, I know his life isn't a picnic, but he's got the woman, he's got the friends, he's got people who are so ready to support him. Why can't I have somebody truly be there for me, just once?" His voice was rising abruptly toward the end of that speech, the words speeding up as they tumbled over the edge of the emotional cliff.

Jensen was studying him. "You think that you _don't_ have people who would support you?"

"Not like that. Not to that level. Take . . . take _you_, for instance. You walked out of your office that Friday night with him and put all your plans on hold for three days, just to immediately jump to help him."

"He would have killed himself that night, James. Not through suicide, I don't think, but through distraction. He truly wasn't safe." Jensen's voice held rock-solid conviction, and Wilson winced, realizing that the psychiatrist probably was right. He _had_ saved House's life that night. "I assure you," the psychiatrist went on, "if you are ever as distraught as he was then at the end of an appointment, I would try to stay with you, too."

Wilson looked skeptical. "Right. How many times have you dropped everything and gone to him in Princeton, clear in the next state?"

"Twice," Jensen stated. "That Friday recently, when it was a matter of his life. Back a year ago at the accident, but only, you will note, after he called me and specifically asked me to come."

"And if I called you and asked you to come, you'd be right there?"

"I'd have to have knowledge of the situation, which I did at the time of the accident, remember. I owe my family that. I've worked hard on my own issues of shortchanging them. But yes, knowing that it was a legitimate crisis, I would help you. In fact, why on earth do you think I stayed there that night and the following week once I arrived at the hospital and found him in surgery?"

"Because . . ." Wilson abruptly trailed off, belatedly realizing something that truly hadn't occurred to him in a full year. "You stayed for _me_?"

Jensen nodded. "Dr. House called because he was worried he was breaking down mentally. I arrived to discover that all of his present problems were in fact physically caused and didn't even fall into my field. I'm not a surgeon, and he was in a coma. While I was concerned for him physically, there was nothing I could do for him in Princeton. Why do you think I didn't turn around and drive back, just asking you to call me with updates on his condition? _You_ needed me that night, James; you were clearly at the limit yourself, which I realized as soon as I saw you. And the next several days, I was trying in every way I could to take the burden off of you, ensure that you got rest, and help _you_ deal with things. You would have driven yourself to collapse trying to manage everything for the others and make up for your own guilt. And if you asked Melissa right now, you'd get verification that I was worried about _you_ and that that was the main reason I gave her in conversations for staying. Dr. House was beyond my intervention."

Wilson abruptly felt about two inches tall. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Jensen smiled. "Hard to see things from the middle of them at times, isn't it? Believe me, staying in Princeton that week a year ago was as much on your behalf as it was on Dr. House's. In fact, when he finally suggested I go home, he specifically asked how you were dealing with things. He was worried about you, too."

"What about the women, though?" Wilson challenged. "You should have heard Cuddy telling me off, um, recently. She said she'd kill me if I made life difficult for him. Nobody's ever told somebody that for me. None of the wives, none of the girlfriends. Amber liked a good tussle for its own sake, but even she didn't go as far as Cuddy did. None of the women have ever stood up to threaten somebody's life on my behalf."

"How often has Dr. Cuddy done that?" Wilson hesitated, derailed in mid pity fest. "Does she routinely threaten to kill you if you make things hard for Dr. House? Every day in the hospital? In routine life?"

"Of course not. This was a crisis."

"Precisely. It was, as I've said, a crisis that threatened his very sanity and life at first, although he is improving now and dealing better with things. How often in your relationships were you in a crisis of this scale to give your partner an equivalent opportunity to go to bat for you?"

Wilson thought for a few minutes, then was forced to shake his head. "Okay, so I haven't had such monster immediate-scale crises as House has."

"Then _how_ do you know that you've never had a partner who would stand up completely for you in that situation? James, I talked to Sandra, as you know. She called me. Even in this _non_ life-threatening scale crisis, even without her knowing what the crisis was, she was quite worried about you. What I keep hearing you say is that you don't have supportive relationships, but what I see looking at it myself is that you don't reach out to the ones you do have available. That doesn't mean they aren't there. You have people who want to help you, but you first must admit that you need help and let them give it." Wilson looked thoughtful. "Okay, back to the events prior to that Friday night. We've established that you had two separate people try to get you to open up. Sandra also tried to comfort you in other ways, your favorite food, for instance. You were not alone in dealing with that visit with Danny unless you chose to be. Once you did try to call Dr. House Friday, he was in his own crisis, but you had had prior opportunities to talk through your feelings. By the way, why didn't you call Sandra Friday afternoon? I know she was at work, but the same thing applied to Dr. House."

"And tell her what? That I was thinking about . . ." Wilson clammed up immediately, slamming the gate across the end of that sentence.

Jensen pounced on that sentence like a cat on a mouse. "You were thinking about cheating? That rather removes your excuse of getting drunk later."

"I wasn't . . . I didn't mean I was actually thinking about cheating."

"Then what did you mean, James?"

Wilson squirmed in his chair. "I just . . . I think I _recognized_ where things were going. It's like mileage signs on a highway, but no exits. It's inevitable. I don't think it was even conscious, but I knew the relationship would be ending soon."

Jensen took a deep breath and considered where to even start with that. "Okay, we're back to the second part of your original statement, that you think you will never be in a successful relationship. Your exact words were that you would never find one that lasts, which is interesting itself, since people don't _find_ relationships; they work to build them. But why do you think failure is inevitable? Why no exits?"

"It just . . . always happens."

"Have you ever been driving and missed your exit on the interstate?"

"Of course."

"And what do you do?"

"I take the next one and double back. But that doesn't help if there _are_ no exits."

"Have you ever in your life driven on a road that truly had no exits, no intersections? Just an endless black ribbon going nowhere?"

Wilson looked down. "No. I get it, there are exits, and I'm just not seeing them."

"Things had been going well with Sandra. Do you agree with that?"

"Yes. But . . ."

"Let's look at your past relationships. First off, Amber." Wilson flinched. "I know that one is especially painful, but the fact remains that according to you, it is the one relationship in which you stayed faithful."

"She would have gone Lorena Bobbit on me. You never met her, but she was frightening at times."

"Other than her death, what were the differences between that relationship and all others, including the current one?" Jensen asked.

"She actually pursued me. Every other one, I've been the first to make a move. She seemed determined to get with me, which I think I've said before might have been some kind of revenge on House at first. He fired her, you know."

"So she was the initiator. What else?"

"She was always pushing me to stand up for myself, pick things for myself. We had a whole round once about buying a bed, and then I didn't really want what I got after all. But she tried to knock me out of the meeting-people's-needs mode."

"How long were you with Amber, James?"

"Roughly four months. You _know_ that, if you've been listening in the last year and a half."

"I was starting to explore something else. So you were with her for four months. Is that the shortest of your serious relationships?"

"Yes. There have been one-night-stands or short flings here and there, but serious relationships, yes." Wilson was getting curious in spite of his guilt. "What on earth does time have to do with it?"

"When did you first cheat on your first wife? How long into the relationship?"

Wilson paused to calculate. "About 8 or 9 months."

"And just continued to hide it for subsequent years and never told her until she found out?"

"Right. Lot of good that did." Wilson shook his head.

"Correct, because hiding things just makes the fallout at the end worse. But take Bonnie. When did you first cheat on her?"

"Let's see, we got together in . . . about 8 months." Wilson's head came up suddenly. "And before you ask, I cheated first on Julie about 9 months into it."

"And you've been with Sandra roughly that length of time."

"That's interesting, and I'd never put it together, but what does that tell us. That I'm doomed to cheat at 8-9 months in? Amber just lucked out by dying first?"

Jensen leaned forward a bit over the desk. "James, you are _not_ doomed to cheat. You _choose_ to cheat. Without determining why, you have zero chance of preventing the future behavior, assuming that you want to. Let's get that out of the way first. You say you want a long-term relationship, like Dr. House has to use your specific example. Do you really want that?"

"YES." Wilson was getting frustrated.

"Then why do you sabotage that 8-9 months in and continue to do so? Did you just get tired of your partners?"

"I . . ." Wilson felt even more in turmoil than he had when he came in. "No. I don't think so. I don't _know_. It always happens, and I don't know why. Give me some help here."

Jensen relented a fraction. "There is a period at the beginning of any serious relationship, the 'honeymoon' phase, in which little faults are overlooked and in which partners are still caught up in the novelty of it. That wears off. A relationship is work, and you are afraid to let it be _bilateral_ work. You are afraid to reveal yourself. My theory would be that you reach the stage that you think you know and meet all the other person's needs, and since you define relationships as meeting somebody's needs, you think you have no more to offer them. So you go looking for new needs. You also have quite a lot of problems with impulse control, and I think that you tend to overly emphasize the sexual aspects of a relationship, probably in an effort to avoid having to reveal anything of yourself in conversation. You feel confident in your sexual prowess, but you do not feel confident letting yourself appear as a vulnerable person to them. Do you think I'm getting close here?"

Wilson lifted his coffee cup and realized only when taking a swallow of air that it was empty. Jensen smiled, but he got up and refilled both of their cups, giving Wilson a moment to process. "Sex is an important part of a relationship," Wilson protested finally.

"Sex is an important _expression_ of a relationship. It doesn't solely make one, not one of the sort you are longing for. Also, just a bit of gender difference, women usually perceive sex as only one piece of a relationship; their definition of the whole is based on far more than that. It's one part of it to them, and often a smaller part than it is to men. That's not saying they don't enjoy it, just that other elements are important to them as well. In dealing with women, you need to realize that and respect and give time to those other priorities to make them feel secure in a relationship. But sex is the one area you are most confident in your abilities, isn't it?"

"I. . . yes, damn it, I'm good, several women have said so, and I'm proud of that. So tell me how screwed up that is?"

"It's only screwed up if you use that one aspect to hide any personal vulnerability behind and to think you can get by only offering that to people. So you were last Friday night at least recognizing subconsciously that you were at a crossroads in your relationship with Sandra, a place where to continue would be revealing more of yourself, and probably yes, the bad visit with Danny emphasized that point to you. What could you have done differently to avoid how that night ended?"

Wilson sighed. "I could have not gone to the bar."

"Excellent. What else?" Wilson was silent. "If you didn't go to the bar, what could you have done instead?"

"I . . . I could have called Sandra and talked about Danny that night."

"Right. You _have_ a relationship, James. You aren't going to _find_ what you are looking for, full-blown, like picking it off the shelf at a supermarket. You are going to have to work at it, and you also are going to have to work seriously on impulse control and on self-revelation. But do not delude yourself into thinking the ending is inevitable. It is not. You _can_ alter your history and your behavior. You don't have to repeat them."

Wilson shook his head. "Not with her. There's no future there, not once I tell her. I even proposed to her the other night, and she wouldn't say yes until this was over. She sure won't say yes now."

It wasn't often that Wilson could surprise Jensen, but that statement momentarily did. "You proposed to her? Now? In the middle of this?"

"I know, I know. I already heard how stupid that was from House."

"Why did you propose to her then?"

"I thought maybe she'd be less quick to leave if I was her fiance instead of just her boyfriend. That maybe she'd listen and let me apologize."

Jensen shook his head. "That wouldn't work. But tell me, what did she say? In what exact words?"

"She said not now, like that's even a valid answer to that question. Then later she asked me to ask her again sometime when this was over, as if I ever could."

"James, tell me, how did you propose to your wives?"

"I got a ring and . . . no, wait a minute. There wasn't a ring with Bonnie. Not at first."

"Meaning it was a fairly impulsive decision? Even with the others, did you think about it for a long time in advance and plan it out?"

"Not too long. I would just realize that . . ." Wilson trailed off, considering. "I wanted to hang onto something, I think. I wanted to make it permanent to try to keep it from going away."

"The word I keep hearing throughout this session, James, is I."

Wilson was growing irritated again. "So now you're saying I'm just selfish?"

"Not necessarily. I'm saying that you have a very unilateral view of relationships. If you ever want to have a true, lasting relationship, like Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy, you are going to have to open yourself up to the other side, you are going to have to apply thought and work instead of impulse, and you are going to have to make a firm commitment and stick to it. Part of that for you, I think, is going to be redefining relationship, because your current view gives too much weight to meeting needs for the other person and gives too much weight to the physical." Wilson sighed. "I can't speak for Sandra, James. I don't know what she's going to say, or if she will give you a chance, or if she will ask you to leave. But when you talk to her, you _must_ give her honesty, without excuse. Tell her you will sincerely work on your issues, but don't tell her that unless you truly commit to doing so. And realize that as long as you are saying things are inevitable and the road has no exits, you have not fully committed. If you truly believe you are incapable of ever changing and incapable of being faithful, you should not even ask her for a second chance. You should simply apologize to her and leave. Anything else is being dishonest to her."

Wilson spread his hands. "I _want_ to have a good relationship. I really do."

"Then _work_ for one. Are you willing to do that?"

"She's probably not willing to do that with me."

"That is her decision, which you do not know yet. But on your part, are you willing to admit that you have not adequately faced your relationship issues and impulsiveness in the past? Are you willing to work harder than you ever have to make things different in the future?"

The silence lengthened for a moment. "Yes," Wilson said finally. "I'm tired of making the same mistakes."

"Tell her that. And then, whatever her answer is, accept it. Let her dictate what happens next. If she asks you to leave, leave. If she has conditions, they are not up for negotiation. If you truly want to change, you need to start now. In fact, you're already started; you just don't know it yet."

Wilson looked up. "Why do you say that?"

"Think back to cheating on your wives, when you first started the cycle. Did it ever eat you up this much? Were you as miserable as you were this last week?"

The oncologist shook his head vigorously. "No. Not even close."

"You also continued in dishonesty for far longer in those relationships. This time, you apparently knew that years and years of covert cheating would not be fair to her. You know you need to change, Dr. Wilson. I think you want to change. But change doesn't involve just wanting to; it's a lot of work. Go home and talk to Sandra. If you love her, tell her that, and tell her you want to change _and_ will genuinely work on it."

Wilson looked wistful for a moment. "I _think_ I love her. But sometimes I'm not even sure I know what love is."

"You will know tonight whether you love her or not," Jensen predicted. Wilson looked surprised. "When you tell her, when you see her expression at that moment, you will know if you really love her or if she was just the latest in line."

Wilson gave a sigh. "Do you think she'll give me a second chance?"

"I'm not going to attempt to speak for her on that one. It could go either way. I do, however, think after talking to her that she loves you. That love could involve letting you go and refusing to compromise, or it could involve working together to help you change. Either would be a valid response."

Wilson looked at his watch. "We're running over. I'd better get on back." He stood up slowly and hesitated on the way to the door. "Can I, um, call you?"

"Yes. But only after you have completely confessed to her. I refuse to be a delaying tactic for you anymore."

"Thanks, I think. We who are about to die salute you."

Jensen smiled at him. "You aren't about to die, James. But no matter what her answer is, things are about to change."


	64. Chapter 64

House felt like today had already lasted an eternity as he entered the PPTH lobby. Cuddy and a police officer were alongside. Ann Bellinger had contacted a friend from the restaurant where they were having a late lunch, and she at least had been delivered into other hands for crisis control for the moment. House had taken a quick moment to text Jensen at lunch, but as much as he wanted to talk through things, he realized that he couldn't. Too much was happening too quickly. He would call Jensen tonight, but for the moment, he had to deal with things himself.

Cuddy was the firm rock in this day, the foundation he could lean on. She had been with him all the way, and given the silence of her cell phone, he assumed that she had either turned it off or put it on silent. He hadn't even seen her looking at it. If she had checked for messages, she had done it while in the bathroom. The conscientious administrator had actually put PPTH on hold for the day. He hadn't heard whatever message she gave them, but it must have been resolute. Now, she put a hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze, interrupting his thoughts. He looked down at her and wondered again how he had ever been lucky enough to wind up with his family.

"You okay?" she asked, sotto voce. Only the policeman on the other side of him might have heard her, and the officer didn't react, remaining the picture of professionalism.

"Yeah," House mumbled. No, actually, but he meant he was okay enough for the moment, and she heard the subtext.

The receptionist at the center lobby desk looked up quickly, recognizing the administrative heel clicks when she heard them. "Dr. Cuddy! There is a whole stack of messages for . . . " She trailed off, registering the presence of the officer for the first time. "Um, is there a problem?"

"Nothing that isn't being dealt with." Cuddy took the offered sheaf of notes but didn't even glance at them. "Thank you." They marched on toward her office, and House could feel the eyes following them.

Cuddy picked up another handful of messages from her assistant, but once inside the office, she shut the door firmly and then dropped the messages ignored to a corner of the desk. Unlocking the desk drawer, she pulled out two disks and offered them to the policeman. "Andrews distributing the papers in the doctor's lounge and Andrews dumping glue on the carpet. We don't have a security camera in Dr. House's actual suite, but after the paperwork, I adjusted the aim on the one in the hall to focus on his rooms as much as possible. It's distant, but you can make it out, and Andrews is clearly seen going in and out."

The officer was busily filling out a log sheet with time and source of this evidence. "They are time and date-stamped?"

"Yes. It says PPTH in the lower left, too."

"That should do it. I think it's time to meet Andrews."

Cuddy nodded and picked up the phone, calling her assistant. "Would you please page Dr. Andrews to my office urgently? Don't mention the police, just call him. Thank you." She hung up.

House had more or less collapsed into the couch, and Cuddy went over to sit next to him, gripping his hand. "This is almost _over_, Greg," she emphasized.

"Except for the trial. Trials," he corrected himself.

She squeezed his hand tighter. "You can do it. You're stronger than you think." House's eyes flicked toward the policeman, and she caught the subtle gesture. He was right; this wasn't the time for a pep talk in front of the law.

"Wonder how Wilson's enjoying his afternoon?" House had no problems with discussing other people's issues in front of the police as an alternate subject.

Cuddy grinned. "I hope Jensen pins him down. I'll tell Sandra myself if he doesn't after today."

House looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. "Not fair to her to spin it out. Plus he's just making it worse for himself. The sooner he admits to cheating, the better."

Cuddy sighed. "I really had hoped he was mending his ways this time. She'd be good for him. Long-term good."

House nodded. "She would. But he's got to learn to keep it zipped."

Cuddy looked up at the officer, who was standing in the middle of the office with an expression of polite deafness. House followed her gaze. "Oh, he's heard it all, I'm sure. Hundreds of times before. Everybody cheats."

She smacked him - though lightly - on the arm. "You have three seconds to modify that statement, Gregory House."

"_Almost_ everybody cheats," he edited quickly. "But then, they've never been married to you. Trust me, I'll never go anywhere else."

"You'd better not," she threatened, but her eyes were softer now.

"What about you?" he asked abruptly, forgetting the police for the moment as the old insecurities flared up again.

Cuddy shook her head. "Never. Why on earth would I? I've got the best man possible already."

He shook his head in automatic denial of her assessment, and she saw the doubt in his gorgeous blue eyes, not doubt of her but of himself. He really didn't think she'd cheat, but he still wasn't sure sometimes that she had made the best possible choice. To hell with the official witness, she decided. They were both consenting, not to mention married, adults, and they were in her private office. A little physical reassurance under the circumstances was hardly objectionable. She leaned in to kiss him, feeling him slowly start to respond.

The door to the office opened, and Andrews stepped in, then came to a startled stop, his gaze on House and Cuddy locked in an embrace on the couch. He didn't even see the policeman until the officer stepped forward. Andrews' eyes widened in panic, and in the next instant, he turned and bolted, full speed.

The policeman gave a shout and immediately charged after him. Cuddy took three steps toward the door, then stopped, waiting for House, who was prying himself up out of the couch. They arrived at the edge of the lobby together to watch the real-life movie playing out before them.

It was really no contest. Andrews was out of shape and panicked; the officer was fit and self-possessed. He caught his quarry almost at the middle of the lobby and brought him down in a flying tackle in front of a growing audience. All around the lobby and even up on the balcony, people were staring. House closed his eyes, imagining this reverberating around the grapevine for weeks, then reopened them, imagining it replacing other recent topics. The policeman dragged Andrews to his feet, snapping the cuffs on with a crisp click. "Peter Andrews, you are under arrest for vandalism, felony level destruction of property, and at least 134 violations of HIPAA." The prosecutor was going to call each copy of the paperwork two violations, one against Thirteen, one against House, and going by known copies, between the 49 Cuddy had retrieved and those which had been picked up previously from the mail slots, plus known copies to the team and others, there were at least 67 distributed in the hospital. No doubt there were more, but that was what they could prove. "You have the right to remain silent," the officer continued, launching into the familiar spiel.

Andrews stood there like a deer caught in the headlights. As the Miranda warning concluded, he protested, "But it wasn't me; it was _him_. I mean, it was his idea. You've got to protect me; he's threatening me even more lately. I think he might get physical."

"You do not have to give any statement without the presence of a lawyer," the officer emphasized again. "Anything you say right now could become evidence against you."

"It was _him_," Andrews insisted, voice rising. The audience around the lobby and railing was growing. "He said House would break. I tried to tell him he didn't have any idea how tough House was, but he wouldn't listen. And all the things he wanted me to try since then, none of it worked. I tried telling him that, but he didn't believe it. He said if I didn't cooperate, he'd tell everybody."

House stepped forward from the side of the lobby. There was no way to prevent a public scene here; might as well finish the one they had. "He'd tell everybody _what_, Andrews? What did he have over you?"

Andrews turned quickly to face him. "I . . . " He suddenly realized the rapt audience and clammed up.

House pushed on. "Did he find out you cheated on your wife at that function five weeks ago when you got tipsy and she was out of town and didn't come with you?" Andrews gaped at him like a fish. "Yes, you moron, I know. _Everybody_ knows that It's worn-out news on the grapevine, wasn't earth-rattling news in the first place." But the short grapevine discussion afterward had coincided with Patrick's presence in the hospital during Christopher's case. No doubt he had overheard it.

"My wife doesn't know," Andrews protested softly. He looked around, but several among the gathering crowd were nodding that yes, this was common knowledge.

House stared at him. "You violated HIPAA to keep your wife from being told you cheated? Andrews, one of those lands you jail time and millions in fines. The other does not. It isn't a hard comparison to make."

"I didn't think I'd get caught," Andrews protested. "He said the plan couldn't fail."

House shook his head. "No, you just didn't _think_, period."

Cuddy spoke up. "_Mr._ Andrews, I will also be making a full report to the medical board making them aware of the charges while you are awaiting trial. I think it's safe to say that even when you get out of prison, your career as a doctor is over."

"Hadley," House said abruptly. "You _shattered_ Hadley. She _killed_ herself over what you did."

Andrews' eyes fell. "I didn't mean that. _He _didn't even mean that. He called it a side effect. He just wanted to break you. I tried to tell him it wouldn't work. He doesn't _know_ you like we do at the hospital."

The crowd was nodding again at that statement. House looked around, surprised. He saw confirmation on several staff's faces. Yes, they really thought they knew him better than Patrick did. There was also anger and disgust, but it was directed at Andrews. Nobody looked like they were pitying him.

Cuddy tightened her grip on House's arm. "He certainly _doesn't_ know Dr. House like we do," she agreed. "Just to make it clear, Andrews, what is the name of the man who was blackmailing you into distribution of all those papers and destroying the carpet?"

"You don't have to answer any questions," the officer reminded him again, but Andrews spoke up quickly.

"Patrick Chandler. He said you blew Christopher's case."

"Christopher died of West Nile encephalitis," House stated. "What the hell could _you _have done differently to save him?"

Andrews' eyes fell. "Nothing." Far too late, he suddenly retreated into silence. "I want a lawyer," he insisted.

"We'll see that you get one," the officer stated, "_after_ you are processed down at the station."

"And meanwhile, I'll pull security tapes for this statement you have voluntarily made in front of dozens of witnesses after being advised multiple times of your rights," Cuddy pointed out. "The judge and jury should find it quite interesting."

Andrews groaned. "Don't tell my wife," he begged.

House shook his head, disgusted. "You really think your marriage isn't over now anyway? You pathetic, cheating weasel. I hope the divorce settlement eats up whatever of your assets aren't consumed by the HIPAA fine."

"Come on," the officer said firmly. One hand on Andrews' elbow, he guided him toward the lobby doors.

House sagged abruptly, as if half of the air had been let out of him. Cuddy gripped his left arm tightly, supporting him. "Let's get back to my office, Greg," she urged softly. She knew he was close to the limit. They turned and started back across the lobby at a slow limp.

The applause began slowly, then gathered, then rained down and around them in a storm of noise. House stopped, startled, and looked around. All around the lobby, all along the rails above, they were looking at him and clapping. They were looking at _him_. No pity on the faces, only respect. Even a couple he knew detested him were standing there along with the others applauding the scene they had just witnessed. He rotated slowly, taking it all in, then resumed his journey without a word or gesture of acknowledgment. He and Cuddy walked slowly side by side to her office, but his shoulders were straighter now.


	65. Chapter 65

Sorry for the delay. It's been a very hectic week with both work and family, and things aren't slowing down, either. For the moment, updates will probably be intermittent.

(H/C)

The sense of smell is said to be the most evocative and tied to memory of all the senses.

Cuddy had wanted to just call it a day after they retreated to her office following the scene in the lobby. She pulled out all the logical arguments she could think of: He didn't have a case at the moment, which the team confirmed on her check by phone, and they were just doing clinic duty. Cuddy herself had had a long day. The girls would be glad to see them early. They could just get a jump start on a quiet family night at home. The trouble is, those were all substitute arguments instead of the main one which both House and Cuddy knew, the unspoken biggest reason of all. He had simply had enough of dealing with his past today. Cuddy gave a mental sigh watching him during their break in her office after Andrews' arrest. He was stressed but also riding an extra surge of energy provided by the crowd's reaction. Even though he would never acknowledge it, the warmth of their respect had touched him deeply. But it had also put more of a stubborn light into his eyes, and where he had been near the point before that where he would have agreed to leave and postpone what he knew waited on the fourth floor, afterward he was determined to finish out this work day as Dr. House, in command, business as usual. Cuddy knew better than to state her real reason for wanting him to go home; he was too exhausted and adrenaline-filled simultaneously to be receptive to hearing it. Still, he saw the unspoken concern that she couldn't hide in her eyes, and it irritated him.

"We haven't got a case," he insisted. "We have an hour left before 5:00, and I haven't been here all day. I'm not going to dive into a differential and be here all night; I'm just going to go to my office and spend an hour doing paperwork. No big deal. You usually _want_ me to do paperwork."

Cuddy couldn't keep the sigh mental that time. "Greg, I really think . . ."

He lurched awkwardly but quickly to his feet. "See you in an hour. I'm sure you're going into paperwork withdrawal yourself."

Cuddy trailed him out of the office. "Greg . . ." She fell into silence as they entered the busy lobby and simply followed him to the elevators. As luck would have it, there were two other people waiting, patient family members. They hesitated to let House and his cane on first, which annoyed him, but he made a point of holding the door for them once he was in, ensuring company for the ride upstairs. Cuddy didn't try to start a conversation, just stood there worrying at her lip. His eyes were straight ahead, glued to the button panel as if it were the most interesting thing he'd seen all week.

The door opened on four, and they exited. Cuddy picked up speed, passing him to reach his suite first and check it out, but she realized her error before she'd covered half the distance. She turned back to face him, seeing the annoyance in his eyes. Great. She had just reminded him of his disability on top of everything else. He came up to her and looked pointedly back toward the elevator. "I doubt your paperwork is in my office, Lisa. You'll find it back downstairs."

Cuddy dropped pretense. He was already annoyed now, no point in continuing to beat around the bush. Her voice was low but intense. "Screw my paperwork. Listen, you stubborn idiot, I know you're determined to do this today, but you are _not_ going to do it alone, whether you think you should be able to or not. This isn't about weakness, Greg. It's about _partnership_ and _supporting _each other. Whoever you're trying to prove a point to, you don't have to prove one to me."

He looked down at her, irritation mixed with appreciation in his eyes. "You always did look hot when you get mad at me."

"I'm _not_ mad at you," she insisted.

"Everybody lies," he quipped and pushed on past her.

She turned to catch up to him but didn't pass him this time, matching his pace for the remaining feet to his suite. "There is a difference between being mad and being exasperated."

He wasn't listening. He stopped at the conference room door, then took a deep breath and pushed it open. She held back, allowing him to enter first but staying immediately behind him.

The carpet installers had really done a remarkable job, she thought. The carpet was close to the shade of the old, only crisper and less traffic worn. Both rooms had been completed, and all furniture was back precisely in place. They had even somehow managed to get rid of 99% of the smell of glue. Trying her hardest, she could barely detect it, and she thought if she hadn't been specifically trying to, she wouldn't have noticed anything.

House walked slowly to the corner where the glue had been dumped, then to the area formerly blood-stained in front of the whiteboard. His nose was twitching like the White Rabbit, and she could tell that his breathing had picked up. "Greg," she said, trying to remind him of her presence. He looked at her briefly, then turned away, continuing his slow orbit of the room. He pushed the connecting door open and entered his office, carefully done to match. There would have been an obvious dividing line of new and old between the two rooms otherwise as a constant reminder; he and Cuddy had agreed Friday that they might as well do both rooms and get it over with, even if Patrick's publicity-oriented plan had only centered on one of them.

He made a round of his office and then sat down at his desk. There was indeed paperwork waiting, but he barely looked at it.

Cuddy put her hands on his shoulders, rubbing at the tension there. "They did a good job getting rid of the smell," she said brightly. "I can barely notice it at all."

House shivered suddenly and swiveled the chair to face her, knocking her hands off his shoulders with the force of the turn. "You think it's barely noticeable?" he asked, his eyes locked onto hers with uncomfortable intensity.

"I . . . " she stalled, wishing now that she'd kept her mouth shut in the first place.

"Go call somebody in here from the hall for some reason," he demanded.

She studied him, wondering how strong he thought it was. It truly was barely detectable. Of course, she knew that he would be more sensitive to it and would notice, and she had expected him to be fighting memories just from knowing that the carpet had been changed, but she wondered now if his mind was multiplying the power of the smell itself. "Greg, why don't we just go home?" she asked.

"Damn it, Lisa." He slammed his fist against the desk and was startled by the pain but also unable to keep from leaning into it a bit, steadying himself against it. "Go call somebody in here. I don't care why. Anybody."

She turned away, wondering how on earth she was going to keep him from spending an hour in these rooms. He'd simply had enough for today, and this moment was hardly a fair test of his tolerance level for triggers, but he was too stubborn to admit it. She opened the office door and looked along the hall. "Dr. Matthews. Could I see you for a minute?"

Matthews changed course and entered the office, his eyes going from her to House and then back too quickly to her. "Yes? What is it, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I just wanted to remind you of the board meeting on Wednesday."

"Yes, I remember. I got the agenda." He looked confused. "Was there anything else?"

"No, that's it. Thank you."

He looked back at House again, then shrugged as if accepting the inexplicable in this office and turned to leave. Cuddy closed the door behind him and then faced her husband.

House shook his head. "His nose didn't even twitch. His breathing didn't catch or get shallow. No physiological reaction at all."

Cuddy sighed. "Greg, let's go home."

His eyes bored into hers. "Is it really barely noticeable?"

"Yes," she said finally, simply.

He spun the chair away, staring at the far wall. "How the hell am I going to do this?" he asked abruptly. "I feel like I'm being smothered. I'm having to fight to get oxygen." His respiration was indeed speeding up. Cuddy came across to him, putting her hands on his shoulders again.

"Greg, let's go home," she repeated. "You don't have to do this . . ."

"Yes, I DO!" he interrupted, his voice rising. "They need my testimony against him. How the hell am I going to take testifying and going through a trial where they are deliberately _trying_ to trip me up if I can't even sit in my office for an hour?"

She sighed. "You didn't let me finish my sentence. You don't have to do this _now_. In court, yes, but you won't be in court at the end of a day like today has been. You're starting out at the moment already emotionally exhausted. We'll help you; _Jensen_ will help you. You'll be ready, and you _can_ do it. But right _now_, what you need most is just to go home. This isn't the right time to pick for a battle, Greg. You'll make a better point by walking out and getting some rest than by making yourself stay here."

He shook his head. "He _nailed _me down. I could hardly breathe because the carpet was so tight across my chest, but the glue was so strong anyway. He just stood there and _laughed,_ and then he left. For hours. I was pinned there for _hours_, Lisa. I thought I was going to suffocate. I _wished_ I would, because then I'd be dead when he came back, and he couldn't do anything else to me."

Cuddy gave up massaging his shoulders and put her arms around him, pulling his head back against her. "Greg. . ."

"I can still _feel_ it. I can still hear him coming back. And the smell . . . there isn't enough air in this room. How am I going to do this if it's still this strong after all these years? I haven't made any progress at all."

Cuddy released him and spun the chair almost viciously around, turning him to face her. "Okay, you listen to me, Greg. Listen to _me_, not to him. Do you remember the first night you told me about the glue? I'd just suggested seeing a psychiatrist, and . . ."

His eyes fell, ashamed. "I had a flashback. _Yes,_ damn it, I remember, but thanks so much for reminding me how pathetic I was that night."

She put her hand under his chin and jerked it back up, forcing his eyes to meet hers again. "You weren't pathetic, but I was trying to make a point. Once again, you didn't let me finish. Yes, you had a flashback. But have you noticed that you _aren't_ right now? Not like that night?" He hadn't. His expression abruptly went analytical. "You are _fighting _the memories, and you are staying on top of them. Which you shouldn't be making yourself do right now anyway, because you've had a hell of a day, and this whole exercise is stupid. But stupid or not, you are doing it. And _that_ is progress. Don't ever say that you haven't made any progress. There is so much there, just in the last year and a half, and Greg, the future will be even better."

He studied her, gauging her sincerity, then looked away. "I'm . . ."

She interrupted him that time, putting her hand over his mouth to block off the word. "Don't you dare say it. Now listen, I already know you are the most stubborn man alive. You don't have to fight for that title; you already have it. But _I _have had a hell of a day today, as have you, and there is no valid reason we need to be doing this tonight. This won't prove anything with the trial, Greg. It's not a similar situation. So can we _please_ just go on home?"

She saw the abrupt glint of humor in his eyes and followed the thought. "I know you can't say anything with my hand clamped over your mouth, but nodding works. Let's go home, okay?"

He nodded after a moment, and she released his mouth, then bent over to kiss him.

"See," he said when they parted, "that's a much more effective way of shutting me up."

"I'll try to remember that. Come on, Greg."

He stood up, and together they left the office.

(H/C)

The highway back from Middletown seemed endless and yet passing far too quickly. At one point, Wilson pulled over and sent Sandra a text, telling her to not start anything for dinner, that he'd bring something. In fact, he was planning on an ample order from their favorite take-out place. No harm in starting out tonight's conversation on a positive note.


	66. Chapter 66

Wilson entered his apartment, fighting back an absurd impulse to knock first. This was his own place, he told himself. He still lived here, at least at the moment, even if he thought his tenancy was limited.

Sandra had some music on, Elton John, which gave him a further stab of guilt because he knew that was her comfort music. She was feeling restless and confused, and he had no doubt of the cause. She had been sitting on the couch with a book open but ignored on her lap, and she looked up quickly as he came in. "Hi."

"Hi." Wilson held out both hands, displaying the multiple bags of take-out. "I brought us your favorite Chinese."

She tilted her head and studied him, counting the sacks. "Did you invite somebody else?"

"No. Just us. Nice, quiet meal with the two of us. I thought it would be a good thing to do as a couple . . ."

She interrupted his rambling, slicing decisively across the stumbling flow of words. "James, there's enough there for us to have three meals."

"Leftovers are always good," he protested. He set the sacks on the coffee table and starting digging in them. "Come on, let's eat."

"How was Jensen?"

"Oh, he's great. Same as usual."

She reached out and put a hand on his arm, stopping his sack extraction. "You know what I meant."

He sighed. "It was . . . thought-provoking. Helpful, maybe. I hope. But we can talk about that later. Let's eat." He grabbed a container at random with his free hand and shoved it into her lap invitingly.

She ignored it. "No."

Wilson opened the carton, letting the smell waft up to her. "Come on. It will get cold. We'll talk later; I promise."

She shook her head. "No, we'll talk now. You're trying to bribe me into a good mood; there's no way you can tell me now this doesn't involve me specifically. You said before it wasn't that you're just tired of me."

"I . . . no, that's not it at all. It's not you. Come on, you need to eat. Long day in the ICU. I'm hungry myself." He sat down on the couch next to her, opened a container himself, took a bite without looking, and almost choked. That one was her favorite, not his.

She sighed. "No. Neither one of us is doing anything else or going anywhere else, including to the bathroom, until you tell me what's wrong, so spill it."

He shifted uneasily on the couch. "That's not fair," he protested. "I just had a 2-hour drive."

"And your first move coming in was to want to eat right away, not to head for the bathroom. You can obviously hold it a little longer. Come on, James. I've had enough of this beating around the bush. _What is bothering you_?"

He squirmed under her fixed gaze. "I . . . um. . . well, okay."

Silence lengthened for a minute. "If that was supposed to be a start, you need to try again," she pointed out. "That time didn't even make it out of the gate."

Wilson looked down at the food container and obsessively reclosed the flaps, officially postponing the meal for later. "I . . . you remember week before last, I had a bad visit with Danny on Wednesday."

She nodded. "I remember that you refused to talk about it."

"I have problems with letting other people help me, I know. I always want to be the helper, never the other way around. Jensen has brought it up a lot of times." He abruptly raised his head to meet her eyes again. "I really am working on my issues. I swear. I'll . . . I'll try harder in the future."

Sandra reached out to touch his hand, her touch offering comfort, but her voice was firm. "I know you're trying, and Jensen is good for you. But this isn't about Danny, is it?"

He sighed again. "No, not really. Just that I was down, and I think subconsciously, that got me started thinking about things. I'd never put a few points together until talking to Jensen today."

She shook her head. "You're back up to today again. You started out a week and a half ago. What is it that comes in between?"

"Well. . . I went to that oncology conference, you know. 3-day conference, although I came back early Saturday after what happened to House. But I was still down, so I went out Friday night." He stalled again, hesitating at the crux of the matter, but her next words sent a fresh surge of guilt washing through him.

"I'd figured you went out Friday night with some friends you'd met at the conference. I tried to call you, but you didn't pick up. I just left a message that I was thinking about you."

Wilson stared. "You left a message? But I . . ." He fumbled urgently for his phone. He hadn't even thought of checking his own missed calls, to focused on the unanswered call to House, but surely in a week and a half, he would have noticed a message. No message. He looked back up at her. "You left me a message Friday night?"

"Didn't you get it later?"

He shook his head. "What time Friday night?"

"It was about 10:30. I didn't try again later. Thought you'd gone out with friends and forgotten your phone, so I went on to bed."

About 10:30. He would have been drunk and probably heading for the wrong hotel room by that point, although he wasn't entirely clear on time-line. But he had had his phone with him. He wracked his memory, trying to pierce the alcoholic fog, sure of the basic fact but hazy on details. He groaned as a fragment of recollection emerged.

_They were giggling, fumbling in an effort to remove each other's clothes, getting into difficulties with suddenly complicated buttons that seemed hilarious. "I hope . . . this works," he confessed. "Sometimes when I've been drinking it . . .gets drunk, too." _

_She burst out laughing as if this were the funniest line she'd heard all day. "I'm drunk, too, so we'll all be drunk together. That way, it all works. If somebody was sober, that'd be the problem." _

_He nodded wisely, conceding this perfectly rational-sounding point. "Right." He resumed his efforts to remember how buttons functioned. Maybe the buttons were drunk, too. Or maybe they weren't yet. If they were, would it all work better then? _

_When the music started, it took him a few seconds to realize that it was his phone. Finally prompted, he fumbled at the instrument and dropped it to the floor, where it continued calling. He started to pursue it, but her hands on his arm stopped him. "Let it go." _

_"I'm a doctor," he slurred proudly. "They might need me." _

_She shook her head. "They don't need you tonight. Besides, you're drunk. Remember? So you're . . . 'ficially off duty."_

_It was right then that the final buttons yielded to his touch, and in the ensuing moments, the phone was knocked completely out of his mind._

A hand waved in front of his eyes. "James?" He snapped alert and focused, meeting Sandra's worried expression.

"Sorry, I was just thinking. I never got the message." Damn it, she must have deleted it later. He had managed to perform even with the liquid assistance, but the effort had exhausted him, and he had been the first to pass out afterward. She had been definitely drunk but not as drunk as he was. She must have checked his messages later to see who had called, and she had deleted it. A wave of anger built up, but it quickly died against the tsunami of guilt coming from the opposite direction. Sandra had actually been trying to call him to cheer him up at the very moment he had been cheating on her.

"James, what is wrong?" she demanded. "Just tell me. This is eating you to pieces."

He sighed and met her eyes. Coward that he was, he was also a bit curious about Jensen's prediction that he would know how serious the relationship with Sandra was by her expression at the moment he told her. "I didn't go out with friends that Friday night. I went to the hotel bar and got drunk. And . . . I . . ." He took a deep breath. "I met somebody there who came in after I was already getting drunk, and we went back to her room together later."

He saw that soak in, a whole montage of feelings playing out across her face. Realization, betrayal, anger, and hurt. Above all, strongest and deepest, hurt. Jensen was right. At that moment, it suddenly occurred to Wilson that he had never really dwelt much on the hurt he had caused his former wives, had never truly considered cheating that big a deal, had only regretted being caught and having the relationship he was used to end. The other person's point of view had never struck him with a sledge hammer as it did now. In that moment, he was knocked clear out of his own self-centered feelings by her pain. He had hurt her. That overarching point had never come home as strongly to him as it did now. He had hurt her.

He loved her. He really did love her. And he had thrown it away through his own cowardice and stupidity. "I'm sorry. I really . . . I swear, I am sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I wasn't thinking . . . I'm so sorry."

She pulled back, shaking his hands off her arms. "And you thought you just wouldn't tell me? That it didn't matter?"

"No, I . . . I didn't want this to end. I should have told you earlier."

She glared at him. "You actually _proposed_ to me. _While _you were hiding this. You don't think that was a problem?"

"I would have told you later. I just. . ." No excuses, Jensen's voice reminded him. "You're right; that was wrong. It was stupid. I am so sorry, Sandra. I really do love you, I swear. I was talking with Jensen today, trying to work out why this has kept happening, and I do think we started getting into some issues I wasn't aware of. Like every relationship for me, except Amber, who died, tends to start going wrong around 8 or 9 months."

"Oh, so there's some cosmic alarm clock that goes off? It's like very slow-paced speed dating for you? The timer sounds, and you just switch partners? This isn't a _game_, James. At least it never was to me."

"It's not a game to me either. I only meant, I am really working on things, and I think I've realized today some areas where the work still needs to be done. Jensen even thinks I'm making progress. But I know it's not enough, because I still was stupid enough to go to that bar Friday night instead of talking to you or House earlier when you offered, instead of calling you that night. I blew it. But I really do want this relationship to work. I know I don't deserve another chance, but I do love you. I've never . . . it's never been like this, with any of them. I _love_ you. I'm trying to get better. I'll try harder."

She studied him, the anger and betrayal still strongest in her eyes. Abruptly, she stood up. "I . . . I need some time to think. If I said or did some of the things I'm thinking right now, I'm afraid I'd regret it. Just . . . leave me alone." She turned and stalked off down the hall, and he heard the bedroom door slam and flinched at the sound. Was that the dull thud of finality across the future he could have had?

Wilson sat there on the couch for a few more minutes, then slowly stood up himself. He meticulously gathered the food, tucking it all into the fridge for later, then washed the few dishes on the counter, then just stood there, unsure what to do. On tiptoe, he crept down the hall and hesitated outside their bedroom door. She was crying; he could hear the low sounds even through the solid barrier between them. With a sigh, he turned away, respecting her last request to him.

Outside, he sat in his car and debated where to go. On his previous breakups, he had gone to either a hotel or to House. Of course, House was married now, with his own family. Still, Wilson felt like he wanted to talk to somebody. He didn't want to be alone, even if he deserved it. Maybe he could distract House from his own problems of the moment; Wilson wouldn't even object to being told what an idiot he was, because he definitely agreed with the assessment. Yes, that sounded right. It wasn't that late yet. He'd go to House's and offer himself as a verbal punching bag, and if Cuddy joined the action, all the better. Maybe facing her even more withering judgment on his actions would be some sort of penance. For once, he wasn't in search of distraction; he _wanted_ to talk about his stupidity further, in vain hopes that it might make an eventual difference. Of course he could call Jensen, he reminded himself. That was so clinical, though. He wanted to be berated by friends tonight, just to remind himself that he had some. Just for form's sake, he tried calling Jensen's cell, but it was busy, and he disconnected immediately upon hearing the busy signal, not even leaving a message. He would go over to House's place and tell them what had happened, and he would take willingly whatever criticisms they handed out.

Wilson started the car and headed across town, but the focus of his thoughts was still mostly left behind, up in the bedroom where Sandra was crying, and at that moment, he didn't think anybody else could possibly say something to him worse than what he was calling himself.


	67. Chapter 67

Thanks for the reviews. This chapter and the next occur somewhat during the same time period, so if you think you're only getting half the story here, guess what? You're right! :) Patience is a virtue.

Enjoy 67. I make no promises on a further update this week. Depends on how insane the next few days and weekend are.

(H/C)

House had been tense and worried all evening. The girls were indeed delighted to see them home early, but the intended family night didn't quite work out as planned. Although House played with the girls, played the piano for them, watched a short video with them, and was in all ways trying to be the attentive father, he also would slip off into thought periodically, and Rachel even got annoyed at his distraction. Abby, with fewer words but with the world spinning behind those blue eyes at times, watched her father more than the toy of the moment and seemed to be conducting her own infant version of a differential. Cuddy also saw a few times that same expression he'd had after the death of Christopher reappearing, the near physical pain of looking at his daughters and thinking of how he couldn't protect them completely in a world populated with monsters like Patrick, plus the realization of all those other hurt, frightened children out there, past, present, and future. The world for him echoed with pain tonight.

Cuddy called an ending to the family evening early, enforcing bedtime with an iron hand over Rachel's protests. As she and House changed the girls into sleepers in the nursery, she kept stealing surreptitious glances at him, gauging. He looked utterly worn out by today, physically and emotionally. She wasn't sure herself which he needed more, a session with Jensen or a long soak in the hot tub and then going to bed early.

"I'm fine," he snapped, feeling her gaze. She said nothing, knowing that anything she said right then would be taken wrong. Abby reached up a hand to pat his cheek, and his expression softened as he smiled at her, but that heartbreaking pain was still behind his eyes.

Jensen solved Cuddy's dilemma at that moment by calling on his own. House pulled out the cell phone, fought Abby briefly for possession of it, and looked at the caller ID. "Jensen," he announced, but he hesitated before answering.

"He deserves an update," Cuddy suggested softly. "A lot has happened today."

House scowled, but he couldn't deny the point. He kissed both girls, then turned away, answering the phone as he headed for the bedroom. "What?"

Jensen was silent for a few seconds. "Is this a bad time?" he asked.

"No worse than any other today." House shut the door. "If today has had a good time, I missed it. No, that's not quite . . ." He trailed off into silence, remembering the reaction of the crowd in the PPTH lobby, still somewhat embarrassed but unable to keep from being touched by their respect.

Jensen was sorting carefully through the layers of tone as well as the words. House sounded exhausted, stretched to the limit, and also high as a kite on adrenaline still. A very bad combination for anybody with as much imagination as he had. "You said in your text we'd talk tonight. I just wanted an update on what all happened today."

House sighed. He stretched out slowly on the bed, startled to realize how much his leg was hurting. "It's a long story."

"Start at the beginning, then, and take it one piece at a time," Jensen advised.

House rewound mentally to Lucas this morning, an eternity ago. Today had somewhere along the way disintegrated from an orderly timeline into a few mountain peaks that dominated the landscape, largest of which was the looming court trial. Trials, he corrected himself. Jensen was quiet, giving him time to collect his thoughts. "Lucas got in very early this morning, and he came over after breakfast," he started. Slowly the whole tale of the day unspooled itself. It took him quite a while to cover all of it, but the act of telling it, forcing it back into a progression, did help steady him a bit. Jensen listened quietly, not interrupting.

"So we came home early," House finished. "But the girls . . . it's bothering me to look at them again. They even picked up on it." The silence lengthened.

"Well done," Jensen said after a moment to make sure House's tale was complete. "It sounds like you've dealt extremely well with everything today."

"Didn't you hear me?" House challenged. "I couldn't even hide what I felt like from my daughters."

"Why should you?" Jensen asked.

"Are you serious? You really think I should tell a 1-year-old and an almost 2-year-old about all this?"

"Of course not, not in details. But give yourself the right to be human. You're going to have bad days - hopefully not many as bad as today, but you will have bad days at work, for instance. You'll have days when your pain levels are up. You'll be totally worn out sometimes. You don't have to hide that from them. Actually, Dr. House, you _can't_ hide that from them, even at their current ages. But you don't have to put on an illusion of being perfect. It's okay to let them know that you had a bad day. I'm sure Rachel at least, and Abby before long, would appreciate the chance to help you feel better. It would make her feel important. You don't have to play Superdad who deals with everything on his own and never lets a crack show to his family. You know, one of the best feelings in the world sometimes is when I've had a bad day at work, and I'm stressed and tired, and then I come home and Cathy asks what kind of a day I had. Not that I give her details from the patients, of course, but I can say I had a bad day, and she'll come over and give me a hug to try to make it better. And you know what, Dr. House? It actually works, at least some. She's good at that. And then I'll ask about her day, and if she had a bad one, I want to know that. She doesn't have to tell me everything, although she usually does. Of course you sometimes can't share all details, nor can I, because of the nature of the work, but don't lie about how you are feeling. Being emotionally honest with your family is actually a _compliment_ to them. It's not weakness."

House sighed. "You know, I can't think of once in my childhood that Dad ever asked what kind of a day I'd had. Mom once in a while, but only when he wasn't there. He'd ask what score I got on a test or stuff like that. He couldn't have cared less if I was happy, mad, or tired when I came home. He'd even . . ." House trailed off.

"What?" Jensen asked after a moment.

"He'd ask me sometimes after he'd . . . done _something_. Whatever it was. That's the one time he'd ask anything about emotions. He'd ask me if I was mad or hurting or miserable, and if I was any of that, he'd start up again. Said as long as I was feeling those . . . those _sissy_ things, he hadn't made his point yet. I finally just learned to give him the right answer immediately. Made things easier."

"And what was the 'right' answer, according to him?"

House shivered. "Nothing. When he'd ask what I was feeling now, that's what he wanted me to say. Nothing."

"Dr. House, you're already realizing this yourself, but that is definitely _not_ the right answer. Tell your girls when you've had a bad day. Tell somebody when your pain levels are up. It's not a statement of failure."

House dodged, having had enough of this subject. "But it . . . _hurts _tonight to see them and think. . . about all those other kids."

"That's perfectly understandable. It will get better, like it did last time. And just think, you are _helping_ all those other kids. They can get the counseling they need now."

House jumped back to the Mount Everest of the day. "But with the trials . . . they're going to be trying to set me off in court, just for the fun of it. Patrick's got nothing left to lose at this point. But I _have_ to testify. I'm the whole back story for how this evidence came to light."

"I agree with you about their intentions," Jensen said, "but we have a weapon that they don't. I've told you before."

"What's that?" House asked.

"They don't know how much progress you have made. We do. You are _not_ as unprepared for this as you think. And trials take time, anyway; we've got some more sessions to prepare. You'll get through this, Dr. House. You won't do it wrong. There is also other evidence; I'm quite interested to see what turns up on that laptop. It isn't all on your shoulders. But your testimony of his campaign against you will be a valuable contribution, and I _know_ you can do this."

House sighed. "I wish I did."

Jensen changed tactics slightly. "Remember what Dr. Cuddy said in your office this afternoon. Think about how _well_ you have handled everything today. You are stronger than you think, Dr. House. And remember the people in the lobby. Patrick and underhanded defense attorneys aside, people are going to respect you for your story. They won't think it's a tale of weakness. Think of the police and the prosecutor. You had to tell them your background today, right?"

"Not in a lot of detail, but the basic summary, yes," House confirmed. "And of course, they looked up the legal papers. That's all evidence now."

"And did any of the people you were talking to judge you for being a victim of abuse?"

House replayed those statements. Their expressions, their body language. "No." He sighed. "Are you _sure_ I can do this right?"

"Yes," Jensen replied immediately. "But let your family help you. _Nothing_ is the wrong answer, Dr. House. Your father was wrong - about that and everything else. It's a lie, and trying to maintain it just puts even more stress on you. Now tell me, how are you feeling tonight?"

House sat there on the bed, sifting through the day. So many years trying to hide things, even from himself. "I'm . . . scared. I'm scared of testifying, and I'm afraid of falling apart on the stand, and I'm so tired it sounds like an effort just to get off this bed. And my leg is hurting like hell."

"Thank you," Jensen said. "That's all perfectly valid. I think most people would be feeling like that at the end of your day. But remember Dr. Cuddy's very wise words. You don't have to do this _now_. The trial isn't tonight. Go take your meds, say good night to your family, and go to bed, Dr. House."

House leaned back, closing his eyes, feeling the tiredness weighing him down. "You really think I'll be able to do it?"

"Yes, I do. But tonight, you don't have to. Go to bed and get some rest."

House sighed. "Okay. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Good night, Dr. House."

"Night, Jensen." House hit off on the phone and then just lay there. He really did feel like he'd been run over by a truck tonight. What a day. He shifted his leg slightly, settling into the mattress, then suddenly grinned at the thought of Patrick lying on the jail cell bed, not able to go anywhere at the moment and worrying about whatever it was that was on that laptop. Sleep well, jackass, House thought triumphantly.

If he lay here much longer himself, he'd drift off to sleep, and he didn't need to without meds to avoid giving the nightmares a foothold. He opened his eyes and painfully hauled himself to his feet, looking at the clock. It wasn't too late still, but today seemed endless. He walked across the room and opened the door. Cuddy wasn't in the nursery, but he lingered there for a moment, looking at the girls, sound asleep, then bending to kiss each of them. "I apologize for being distracted," he told them softly. "I had a bad day today." Their soft, even breathing was the only reply, but Jensen was right. It did help some. He turned away to go find Cuddy.

(H/C)

Jensen hit off on his cell phone, then set it down on the heavy desk in his study. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head into his hands, his mind running through the next steps. He hadn't lied to House, and he did think House could do it, but he wasn't underestimating the difficulties looming ahead for his favorite patient, either.

After a few minutes, he stood up, stretched, and then headed for the door, opening it and releasing the implied "Do Not Disturb" sign. A river of music flowed down the hall toward him, and he smiled, then headed for the living room. Cathy was playing, working on her recital piece. She looked up as he entered the room, and he sat down in his favorite chair, just listening. There was a world of difference in the last week in her playing, not so much in skill, which would take time, but in her own posture, her personality flowing into the music, the smile on her face. There was now no doubt that she was enjoying this. The piano was fun, no longer a chore to be overcome. She finished the piece, and he applauded. "Nice."

Cathy spun around on the piano bench with characteristic enthusiasm to face him, her legs on the outer side now. "Can I play it for Uncle Mark and his family when they come for Thanksgiving?"

"Definitely. They'll enjoy hearing it."

She smiled. "This is SO much fun now. I didn't even feel all of how NOT fun it had been."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Cathy. I should have been trying more to figure out what was wrong before. I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

She bounded over to settle into the chair with him. "It's okay. But do we have to let Brian play, too?" Brian was Mark's son. He had enjoyed the last time he was visiting tormenting the piano, not playing any recognizable piece, just banging.

Jensen chuckled. "I think we can enforce a time limit on pure noise."

She wrapped an arm around him, hugging him in the chair. "He'll just say I'm making noise, too."

"If he does, it will be because he's secretly jealous." Jensen dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone, and Cathy laughed. The little clock on the living room wall chimed, and he read unerringly the expressing that flitted, quickly hidden, across her face. "You need to take a bath and then head for bed."

"This is a short school week." She didn't really think that argument would work, but worth a try.

"A short school week that includes tomorrow. Bath, then bed. Get moving." He looked around suddenly. "Where's your mother?"

"On the phone. She took it into the kitchen. Everybody's having private phone calls tonight," she protested. "Maybe I can call Becky after I get in my room."

"Nice try," her father countered. He boosted her toward the hall with a light smack on her rump, and she stuck her tongue out at him, but she was already resigned, heading for the bathroom. Jensen watched her go, but once the door was shut firmly, he turned toward the kitchen.

Melissa was just hanging up. She looked up as she heard his footsteps, and he saw her brimming eyes. Without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, simply holding her tightly until he felt her start to relax. "What's wrong?" he asked.

She pulled away and headed for the sink, getting out cups for some herbal tea. "That was Lanah."

Jensen immediately jumped from Melissa's undefined problem to one he knew far more details of. "What was wrong?" he asked, just to make sure.

"You probably know," Melissa countered. "Why did you want information from her on Patrick? You said there was a civil case going on against House, but what she said tonight . . ."

"It was a civil case at that point," Jensen confirmed. "But it's about to blow up into a lot more. Patrick was arrested this morning. He's charged with solicitation of crimes from Kentucky right now, but he'll wind up with child abuse charges in multiple states."

"Lanah said that CPS called her tonight. They're opening an investigation into Crystal. Lanah got to wondering about your visit last week after that; she said you were asking questions about how she'd met Patrick, how often he was alone with her." She shook her head. "She'd never put it together until CPS called tonight. They want her to give a statement tomorrow. She was blaming herself."

"What did you tell her?" Jensen asked, the professional in him kicking in. "Is somebody with her tonight?"

"Yes. I told her to call somebody there, and she said she had a few friends." Melissa looked up, meeting his eyes. "My God, Michael, what's going on?"

Jensen sighed. "I did check back in March that Crystal wasn't with her any longer. Remember? I couldn't go further then, not without violating confidentiality, and besides, there wasn't any proof, nothing definite enough to use to help her. There wasn't real proof until today. Soon as there was, Dr. House went to the authorities with it."

"How did you wonder about Patrick in March?"

"House met him at the wedding, and he . . ." Jensen hesitated. "He _recognized_ him. The type, I mean, not the individual. He warned me to watch out for Cathy, even though he thought he might be imagining things. I took it a step further to make sure Patrick wasn't living with a child. I couldn't go any further. Not then. There wasn't anything to go on that CPS would have listened to."

The microwave dinged, and Melissa turned to remove the teacups. "House _recognized _him? How?" Jensen didn't reply, and Melissa's eyes widened. "You mean Dr. House was . . . a victim, too?"

"Yes," Jensen confirmed after a moment. "He . . . I can't get into details, but this whole story about Patrick is about to blow anyway. I'll be surprised if the national media doesn't pick it up, and unfortunately, House is a big part of the evidence. He had an absolutely horrific childhood."

"And that's why he's seeing you." A fresh surge of tears filled her eyes. "Poor Dr. House. Is he . . ."

"He's going to be okay," Jensen assured her. "In the long term, anyway. Right now, he's got a rough time ahead with the trials."

"What happened week before last? Patrick sued him?"

Jensen shook his head. "House ran into Patrick and his current woman back in October at his hospital. He hadn't seen him since the wedding, but he recognized him. The boy had some suspicious bruising, although he also had a clotting disorder, and House said he was afraid of Patrick. So House called CPS while he kept working the medical case."

"His _current_ woman?" Melissa picked up on the qualifier.

Jensen nodded, his own tone horrified. "There are nine that we know of so far, and that's only as far as the trail has been run. About 3 months with each. All single mothers of 3 to 4-year-olds."

Melissa shook her head. "My God. And nobody ever put it together?"

"Not until House did. But back to the boy in October, he died of a medical illness which it turns out now might or might not be related to abuse. They're just starting work on the physical evidence in the case. The police only got involved today. The CPS investigation in October was inconclusive, but Patrick was offended that House had challenged him. He managed to get hold of House's mother's therapy notes - that's the charges from Kentucky - and he talked the boy's mother into filing a civil case, but his real goal was to break House publicly. He had those papers revealing intimate details of his past distributed all around the hospital, plus mailed to several people. One of House's fellows committed suicide over what was revealed about her."

Melissa was horrified, the tea forgotten. "That's what you were dealing with that weekend?" She'd known he was with House, of course, but Jensen hadn't gone into too many details, simply stating that it was an emergency, and she had trusted him on it, reinforced by her own esteem for House.

"Yes. He . . . I think he would have killed himself driving back that night that he found out if I hadn't gone with him. But the exposure . . . he's got specific issues related to that, even more than most abuse victims. He was absolutely reeling. I spent that whole weekend trying to get him stabilized. He's amazingly resilient - he's had to be, unfortunately - and by Sunday night, he was thinking of how to get back at Patrick. He hired a PI to investigate his past, and we talked to Lanah. That investigation has taken up the last week. He just got the proof this morning of the string of women. He spent most of today talking to the police and the prosecutor. It hits 3 states that we know of, and they'll keep tracking the pattern."

Melissa closed her eyes. "All those children."

"They'll be able to get help now."

"I hope Lanah's husband doesn't use this as another weapon. I know we hadn't been close, but she's said once that he was very vindictive with the divorce."

"Whether it's a weapon or not, now that we have enough proof to act on, Crystal needs to get help."

She nodded. "They all do. You're right. So Dr. House will have to testify at the trials since he was the first one to suspect Patrick."

"Yes. But it's more complicated because remember, they have some detailed inside information on him, his triggers and such. I'm sure they'll try to exploit that in the trial when he's on the stand, just for revenge. Also - and I don't think House has realized this point yet - I'm expecting this to turn into a media circus. Once the charges are filed, it's public record, and some reporter will break the story. Serial child abuse in several states over years, with the last child now dead. I can't imagine the media missing that, and Dr. House's background, at least the limited version, is going to be part of the legal evidence against Patrick, because it is relevant. I'm sure the questions on the stand will get into more details, and the press will be right there. This is going to take what Patrick did and widen out the circle of exposure by millions."

Melissa shook her head. "You'll have to go to the trial with him. To be there for him."

"I will." He came over to her, accepting his own tea cup. "I'm sorry I've spent so much time on this lately, but it really has required it."

"I know you're trying, Michael, and this isn't like before. It's okay." He took a sip, then set the cup down on the counter and opened his arms, and she buried herself in them. Locked together, they didn't even hear Cathy entering the room until she spoke.

"Are you guys okay?" They broke apart and looked at her. "You look like you've been crying. Who was on the phone?"

"My cousin Lanah," Melissa said. "She had some bad news. I'll tell you sometime, but not right now, Cathy, okay? I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight."

Cathy looked from her to Jensen, a bit dubious. "Are you sure you guys are okay?"

Jensen nodded. "We're okay. Nothing is wrong with either of us, I promise. It's just been a bad day, Cathy."

She came across immediately to hug both of them, one arm around each, and they all wrapped together in a three-cornered family hug.


	68. Chapter 68

Cuddy let out a deep breath as the bedroom door closed behind House. That snapped one-word greeting to Jensen on his way had spoken volumes to her (and, she was sure, to the psychiatrist). House really was at the limit with today, but he did need to work through it with Jensen, and he himself realized that and resented it, feeling that he should be able to get through at least _one_ day without requiring the services of his psychiatrist. Always, his mind would take the immediate and expand it to a general continuing situation. Hardly surprising, as his first 18 years had been basically a continuous cycle of physical and emotional abuse from John rather than any sort of normal life with good days and occasional bad ones interspersed. He was still learning the concept that bad days and temporary crises did not equate to failure on his part to live up to his newfound happiness.

The girls were both a little restless still, _his_ restlessness rubbing off on them, and Cuddy settled into the rocking chair and started singing softly. Her voice wasn't as good as his, but the music soothed them, almost a habitual response by this point. Worry is itself exhausting, and before long, in spite of themselves, Abby and then Rachel surrendered to sleep. Cuddy tucked them in carefully, then left the nursery.

She hesitated outside the bedroom door, not wanting to interrupt, just wanting to establish the fact. House's low voice came through the wood, words indistinct but the meaning clear enough. Ah, good, Jensen did have him talking through today. With another surge of gratitude toward the psychiatrist, she left them to it and headed for the kitchen. Her cell phone rang before she had even finished heating water for a cup of tea. She pulled it out, checked caller ID, and scowled. Blythe. Her first impulse was to ignore it, her second to answer instantly. "Hello?"

"Lisa? Is everything okay?"

Cuddy closed her eyes and counted mentally to ten. "_No_, everything isn't okay, Blythe. But we're making progress."

"I tried calling Greg just now for an update, but his line is busy."

"He's talking to Jensen. Do _not_ call him tonight, Blythe, not even after he gets off the phone. He's had too much of this day already. He needs to just go to bed."

"Did Lucas get back? Did that man get arrested?"

Cuddy sighed. Blythe wasn't going to go on hold without a brief summary. She made a mental note to herself to update her own mother tomorrow; she'd last talked to Susan over that awful weekend of waiting. "Lucas got back with proof of a whole string of women and children. Patrick was arrested this morning for the charges in Kentucky, but more are coming. Greg and I talked to Christopher's mother this morning, then spent the rest of the day talking to the police. The case against us and the hospital is dropped; there's a criminal investigation against Patrick starting now. The informant at the hospital was also arrested this afternoon."

Blythe let out a sigh. "So it's all over basically except the trials?"

Cuddy considered. In spite of her oft-repeated reassurance to House, she had trouble letting herself hope that this was almost over. "Yes, but the trials will be hard on him."

"I know. Poor Greg. You're right; he probably needs to just go to bed early tonight. And maybe some hot tea."

Cuddy remembered her own cup in progress and started to fix it one-handed. "I'll keep you updated, Blythe, but please don't bother him. Not tonight."

"Okay. I'll hang up now; you two just go on to bed once he's done talking. Good night, Lisa. Kiss the girls for me."

"I will. Good night, Blythe." Cuddy hit end, and then she viciously stabbed off, shutting down her cell phone. Going into the living room where the base for the house cordless phone was, she unplugged it with a determined snap. The world was officially on hold for the rest of tonight; she'd catch her chance to turn off House's cell later, after his conversation with Jensen. But nobody else was going to bother him. Not tonight.

She was just straightening up from unplugging the main line when she saw the headlights splash against the wall as a car turned into the drive. She looked out the freshly repaired front window and stared in disbelief as the Volvo came to a halt. In the next instant, she spun around and marched toward the door, though she did take a moment to grab her coat first. No point in freezing on this quite-cold night while filleting Wilson. She was on the front walk by the time he came around the car, and he jumped, startled to see her outside.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" she snapped. Her tone was carefully soft, as she didn't want House to overhear them, but it was as frigid as the night.

Wilson blinked, surprised at the venom in her tone. "I . . . um . . . I talked to Sandra."

"Congratulations, although you should have a week ago. So she threw you out and you thought you'd come stay with us?"

"I . .. not necessarily. You do have spare rooms, though. I mean, I just . . . I thought. . ." Wilson was floundering, realizing that this had been a mistake. "I know House has a lot going on right now," he said, trying to demonstrate his consideration for his friend. "I thought maybe talking over my idiocy would distract him. He _enjoys_ giving me a hard time. You know he does."

Cuddy discarded her first few mental reactions simply because she thought there was no way to commit those acts quietly. "You're actually trying to tell me you are here out of consideration for _him_?"

"Well . . . yes," Wilson replied, trying to give her his good-friend-ready-to-be-supportive candid expression. It fell flat.

Cuddy closed her eyes momentarily. Wilson saw her hands clench at her sides, and he took a cautionary step back. "Wilson, do you have _any_ idea what all has happened today? Did it even _occur_ to you that neither of us was at work until after you'd left this afternoon? Did you even think about Greg at _all_ until he became a diversion from your problems?"

Wilson abruptly felt his stature shrinking. No, he hadn't thought about them this morning, hadn't even realized they were gone. Wrapped up in his own pre-Jensen dread, he had spent the entire morning concertedly trying to _avoid_ House and Cuddy, lest he be further lectured on his sins. He should have realized that avoiding them had been entirely too easy. "What happened today? I know Lucas was snowed in; that's the last update I had." Genuine concern for House was competing with his own crisis now, and he took a tentative half-step forward.

Cuddy glared at him. "Patrick is arrested, Lucas got back, we've talked to Ann Bellinger, we then spent most of the day making statements to the police and the prosecutor, and Greg will have to be one of the main witnesses at the trial. Trials. Oh, yes, and Andrews was arrested this afternoon after a public chase through the lobby of PPTH and in front of a crowd of at least 100 people by the end."

Wilson was shocked. "I had no idea. Seriously, Cuddy, I didn't . . . is he okay?"

"_No_, you idiot, he is _not_ okay. He's down to his last nerve tonight, and you are _not_ going to bother him with your own stupid, self-caused problems. Jensen is talking to him right now, helping him calm down."

"_That's_ why Jensen's phone was busy," Wilson blurted out.

"So you tried to call Jensen? Take a number, Wilson; there are more important things going on. In fact, give Jensen a break for tonight even after he gets done with Greg. I'm sure _he'll_ be ready to go to bed early himself by then."

"Jensen never mentioned anything about all this when I saw him today. I'm sorry, Cuddy; I really thought things were still on hold."

"And did you expect Jensen to spend half of your session talking about Greg? Jensen knows the meaning of discretion." She sighed. "Wilson, the only reason I haven't killed you yet is that Greg would hear us. So you finally admitted to Sandra you cheated, and she threw you out. Go to a hotel somewhere and do _not_ bother Greg tonight. And when you see him tomorrow, realize that your problems are not the center of the universe."

Wilson sighed. "I'm sorry. I'll go get a hotel room somewhere. I guess that's what she wanted." He started to turn away.

Cuddy was unable to resist following up on that one. "You _guess_ that's what she wanted? She didn't say so?"

"Well, not in those precise words."

It was Cuddy's turn to sigh. "Forgive me if I don't quite trust your judgment and interpretation of things today. What did she say to you? Was it something like, 'Get out of my life and don't come back?' "Don't let the door hit you on the way out?' 'Get lost, you cheating jackass?' Did she chase you out the door throwing things? Is any of that close?"

Wilson replayed their conversation. "Not exactly."

"Well, _what_ exactly? What did she say?"

"She told me to leave."

"In what _exact_ words, Wilson?"

"She said, let's see, she said she needed to think about things for a while, and then she said to just leave her alone. Then she went back to the bedroom and slammed the door."

Cuddy shook her head. "And you _left?_"

"Of course I left. She said to leave her alone."

"You _idiot_! She didn't want you to leave."

Wilson stared at her. "What?"

"Wilson, if she wanted you out of her life right now, she would have said a lot more that that. 'Just leave me alone' doesn't mean leave. She wanted you to stay and grovel."

Wilson spread his hands helplessly. "Is this stuff written down in an owner's manual somewhere?"

Cuddy's slap across his cheek rang out sharply in the crisp winter air. "You want an _owner's manual_? This isn't a _car_, Wilson; it's a _relationship_."

Wilson stepped back again quickly, gaining some space, and rubbed his stinging cheek. "Okay, bad choice of words. So she _didn't_ want me to leave?"

"She wants to know how much you want this. How much you're willing to work for it. How remorseful you are. Just leaving doesn't show her any of that. She needs to see you in the dog house, to know that it matters that much to you. You get back over there and sleep on the couch."

Wilson flinched. "I have a bad back."

"Tough. Go _home_, Wilson. Be there, look remorseful, give her space, let her think, but whatever you do, don't just walk out the door. That tells her that you don't want to work to fix things. You only walk out when she tells you to, and there won't be any mistaking it if she means it."

The oncologist sighed. "Are you _sure_ there isn't a translation for this somewhere? How am I supposed to know all this stuff?"

"You're supposed to know _her_ well enough to read between the lines. Get back over there and grovel. You've still got a chance with her, you idiot, although I don't know why."

A small flicker of hope started to glow deep within him. "You think we've still got a chance?"

"_Yes_. She's trying to decide right now if you really want one and if you're worth it. And frankly, you haven't done anything tonight to convince her of that. Get back over there now and _prove_ to her that you're willing to stay and work on things. Leaving is easy, Wilson. That's the coward's answer. It's _staying_ and facing the consequences of your mistakes that's hard. Until she unequivocally tells you to get out of her life, you stay there and show her how much you still care. Assuming that you actually do, but that's something you need to work out yourself."

"I think I love her," Wilson replied, his tone still almost awed at the discovery.

"Then get back over there on that couch where you belong and _stay_ there."

He let out a deep breath, forming a puff of cloud in the frosty air. "Okay. Thanks, Cuddy." He started to turn away, then stopped, his attention caught by the snow family on the front yard. He took a few steps closer. "Is that. . . "

"It's a snow cat," Cuddy explained. Wilson studied it, then shook his head, smiling for the first time today. "Get going," Cuddy prompted. "But whatever you do, if you value your life, don't come back here tonight. Do you need any further translation for that?" She took a step closer.

"No." Quickly, Wilson returned to the Volvo and drove off.

Cuddy stayed outside for several more minutes, smiling herself at the snow family. The cold air seemed cleansing somehow, washing away some of the stress of this endless day. She was just starting to feel the cold even through her coat when she heard the door open behind her and turned around.

"Are you okay?" House limped quickly outside, his whole body language agitated. "I . . ."

She wrapped an arm around him. "I'm fine, Greg. Relax."

"I couldn't find you. Your phone was shut off. I thought . . . maybe Patrick had somebody else left on the outside who . . ."

Cuddy pulled him against her, embracing him tightly. "I apologize. I didn't mean to scare you."

"What are you doing out here? It's freezing."

"I turned the phone off after your mother called and before mine could." He nodded, accepting that as perfectly logical. "Then Wilson came over to talk about his problems, and I came outside to meet him."

House's grin started slowly but then spread. "He came over to talk about his problems _tonight_? Is he still alive?"

"Yes. I sent him back to the dog house where he belongs. Sandra told him she needed time to think and just to leave her alone, and he thought that meant get out of my life."

House shook his head. "No, she wants him to grovel."

Cuddy smiled. "That's what I told him. But in the dog house or in a hotel, he doesn't need to bother us tonight."

He nodded. "I . . . I don't know how much more I could take today."

"You don't have to, Greg." She abruptly realized that he had bolted out without a coat himself, and he was shivering in her arms. "Let's get back inside. I think we need a soak in the hot tub, and then let's just go to bed. Today at least is over, Greg."

He considered that, then nodded slowly. "It was a bad day. I'm . . . I apologize."

"You have nothing to apologize for. But if you stay out here without a coat and catch pneumonia again, you _will_ have something to apologize to me for. Let's get back inside."

He looked at the snow family, then smiled. "Okay."

Hand in hand, they returned to the shelter and warmth of their home.


	69. Chapter 69

House had never realized until after the trip wire just how messed up his sleeping patterns had been all of his life. Ridiculous as a doctor, because he _knew_ how much the body required rest and recharging, could recite all of the physiological benefits, could list the medical facts on his whiteboard. He had simply never applied this knowledge beyond patients to himself. Now, looking back through the perspective of over a year and a half of therapy, he realized that for him, sleep had become dangerous in early childhood, a time of letting down the guard, a time of helplessness. Seeing what was coming, even if unable to prevent it, was preferable to being caught off guard. John's enjoyment of sneaking up on him and catching him at rest only strengthened the conclusion. So he had fought sleep throughout his youth, limited it to the bare minimum, and continued fighting it subconsciously even into adulthood, even while self-medicating with alcohol. But he had never in his life consistently experienced a full night's sleep regularly until he got together with Cuddy. Granted, they had to achieve that with drugs during stressful times when the nightmares surged back in, and even at baseline, he was still on a smaller dose of the sleeping pills to boost him off into rest instead of lying awake. But waking up after 7 or 8 hours of solid rest was a world better than waking up either still sleep-deprived or with a hangover after alcohol had temporarily worn down his vigilance.

Tuesday morning, as he and Cuddy walked together into PPTH, he was feeling better. Still scared of what lay ahead, still uncertain of his ability to do this, but he was definitely feeling better than he had yesterday evening. Cuddy - and Jensen - had been right. Sometimes, what a problem needed most wasn't more thought but simply some rest. Cuddy was also looking more like herself this morning, the brisk administrative spring back in her step, the light back in her eyes. He thought she had looked almost as storm-battered as he had by the time they went to bed last night.

House came to a halt in front of the elevator and pushed the button, then turned for a quick scan of the lobby while he was waiting. Things still weren't back to normal. He could tell that he was the focus of more than one glance and surreptitious conversation, but it could have been worse. There were people in the lobby who hadn't noticed his entrance at all, and nobody was standing pointing fingers and pouring cascades of pity. "It _will_ get back to normal," Cuddy assured him.

He was feeling enough better this morning to deflect the pep talk instead of leaning against it. "Maybe they need a few more events on the gossip Richter scale to help push me into the background. Wonder what I could arrange for today. . ."

"_House_," she admonished sharply as a patient's family came up to join them at the elevator. She couldn't hide the smile, though, glad he was feeling like giving her a hard time.

The elevator dinged and opened, and they entered. "Don't you have paperwork calling your name?" he asked, punching four.

"It still will be there in 30 minutes," she replied. "I need to talk to Dr. Foreman first thing this morning."

So that was her excuse for following him up this morning. He didn't make any further comments as the elevator concluded its journey, but he was very aware of her presence right at his elbow as he stepped off.

It was only 8:00, their early night last night equating to an on-time morning, and the conference room was empty. House went directly to his office next door, walked in, and took a deep breath.

The smell was still there, lurking around the edges, trying to draw him back down into the quicksand of memory, but it definitely wasn't as suffocating as last night. He was immediately more on edge, but working in this room didn't seem quite as impossible as before.

Cuddy brushed his arm lightly with her fingertips, not holding him, just reminding him of her presence. "Greg?"

House turned to face her. She could feel the undercurrent of tension in him. "It's . . . okay. I think. Yes, it's there, but it isn't _too_ bad. Better than last night." He saw her own nose twitch. "Tell me, Lisa, how strong is it really?"

She sighed, but she didn't dodge the question. "It's barely noticeable, Greg. I have to think about it to detect it."

"And it was like that last night?"

"It's a little less this morning, even, but yes, it was hard to pick it up last night."

He pulled away and walked over to his desk, picking up the thinking ball. "Give them their $1000."

"I will." She came across to stand beside him again. "Greg, the balcony door is right there. Don't make yourself a martyr today. You don't _have_ to sit here for 8 hours; you usually drift all around while working anyway. Fresh air is only 10 feet away whenever you need it." She crossed over to open the balcony door, and a blast of frigid late November swept in. The snow cover was still solid over Princeton. House shivered.

"They'll think I've gone completely around the bend if I leave that door open." He sucked in the fresh air greedily, though. "Close the door, Lisa. I'll stick my nose out now and then when I need to."

She studied him, then closed the door. "Promise me."

He sighed. "I promise not to spend the next 8 hours sitting here without getting some fresh air now and then. Satisfied?"

She came back over and wrapped her arms around him. "I'll hold you to that."

"Really?" House asked. "And how will you hold me to that? Full body contact?" He closed the gap even more, demonstrating. "Not a bad distraction," he stated as their lips broke apart.

Cuddy smacked him lightly and made herself push him back to gain some space. "We're at _work_, Greg."

"We weren't working yet. And you're the one who brought up holding me."

His back was to the conference room, but she saw Foreman come in. House felt her mood change, all the teasing vanishing instantly, and he let her go and turned to follow her gaze. Cuddy stepped over to the connecting door and opened it. "Dr. Foreman, could I have a word with you?"

Foreman walked in, trying to look impassive, but they saw the irritation in his eyes. He already anticipated the topic of discussion. "What can I do for you, Dr. Cuddy?"

House dropped into his desk chair, symbolically yielding the field, though he still had his thinking ball, his ever-restless hands fidgeting with it. Cuddy moved away from the desk slightly, squaring her shoulders, the administrator in the flesh. "This is Tuesday morning, Dr. Foreman. Have you contacted a therapist yet?"

"You said Thursday," Foreman countered. He paced around to the main open area of the office, giving himself room while facing both of them.

"I said you had to start _seeing _one by Thursday. You're pushing it now for getting an appointment."

Foreman tried to go for the reasonable approach. "What happened a week and a half ago was only because I was drunk and under extreme stress. I lashed out, and I shouldn't have. It was wrong. But I don't agree that I have a general anger management problem, and I don't agree that I need therapy. It was one incident. You can't expect somebody who just lost a partner to be thinking straight. It was perfectly understandable."

Cuddy shook her head. "Unfortunately, whether you agree or not is irrelevant. This is a condition of your employment, and if you want to keep that employment, you do need to start counseling by Thursday."

Foreman's rational exterior was starting to crack. "For hitting _House?_ Look, I was drunk, like I said, and it was wrong, but I've got a lot of company in losing patience with him. You can't take _that_ as diagnostic of a larger anger problem. If you could, a whole lot of patients and their families also need help."

Cuddy's eyes glittered. "Are you saying that Dr. House brought that attack on himself? You are aware that Dr. Andrews was arrested yesterday for over 100 counts of violating HIPAA, aren't you? If anybody is to blame for pushing Dr. Hadley to suicide, it is Andrews and the man who directed him, not Dr. House."

"I was just saying, he does have a bit of a history. Taking my _one_ instance of aggression against him and ignoring everybody else who's ever done it is rather uneven justice."

"This isn't a debate, Dr. Foreman; it's a decision. As a condition of your employment, you need to enter counseling within the next 2 days, and if you do not, you _will _be terminated without a reference."

Foreman sighed. "I do _not_ have an anger management problem," he insisted.

"Actually," House stated, "if you're assigning blame for pushing Hadley to suicide, you need to look a step beyond Andrews and Patrick to the person who handed him on a silver platter the information to use against her."

"_House!"_ Cuddy's tone was a clear warning. She knew what he was doing, of course, but she couldn't let the idiot provoke Foreman into another live demonstration against him just to prove a point.

Foreman's eyes had ignited, and his tone was tighter and far more dangerous. "You _aren't_ going to pin her on me. I had no way of knowing. . ."

"Really?" House replied. "Gee, why on earth should a doctor refrain from mentioning personal health information in front of witnesses? Seems to me like we _have_ had a few mandatory meetings every year on that subject."

"House, _shut up,_" Cuddy snapped. "Dr. Foreman," she continued quickly, trying to draw Foreman's fixed attention back off his choice target, "while it could have been expressed more sensitively, Dr. House does bring up a good point. You have also violated HIPAA yourself. This would fall under one of the smaller, accidental violations, nothing like Andrews, and nobody is claiming malicious intent. The fine would be small. I had been willing to overlook this one violation in view of your emotional distress at realizing the consequences of it, but if PPTH is forced to terminate your employment on Thursday, I will also file a report for your own HIPAA lapse."

Foreman was seething by this point, his eyes blazing. "You're saying that _I _was responsible for her death?"

Cuddy tried to keep her tone sympathetic and administrative, stating no more than a fact. "Not for her death, but the path that led to it did start with your own breach of confidentiality, yes."

Foreman snapped with the abruptness of a branch pushed beyond its limit. Grasping the nearest knick-knack at random from the shelves behind him, he hurled it with lightning speed toward Cuddy, who, standing in front of the desk, had far less room to maneuver. As fast as he was, however, House was quicker. He saw Foreman's muscles prepare, and years of practice on the lacrosse field made the body language of impending action unmistakable. House's leg wouldn't allow him to launch to his feet in time to reach either Cuddy or Foreman, but he was still holding his thinking ball, and there was nothing wrong with his aim or accuracy. The oversized ball zipped across the room and smacked hard against Foreman's throwing hand just as he released. By that fraction, Foreman's aim was knocked off at the last second, and the knick-knack hurtled through clear space beside Cuddy's shoulder and shattered harmlessly against the wall.

Two pedestrians in the hallway stopped and looked over at the sound. Foreman stood frozen, his eyes on the broken shards on the carpet. He looked shocked himself. House was on his feet as quickly as he could get there, and he rounded the desk to stand shoulder to shoulder with Cuddy, his cane held in front of him in a menacing fashion, the look in his eyes not a warning but a promise. Nothing about him in that moment was handicapped.

Cuddy was the least ruffled person in the room. "You were saying you don't believe you have an anger management problem in general?"

Foreman was still staring at the broken glass. The office door opened, and a head poked him. "Do you need any help in here, Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy looked at House, standing tall and strong beside her. "No, thank you. We have it under control." The door closed, and Cuddy returned her attention to Foreman. "Dr. Foreman, you are suspended without pay from this moment until after you have begun counseling. If I don't have proof by Thursday that you have entered counseling, you are terminated, and a report will be filed. If you do enter counseling by Thursday, you may return to work in 2 weeks, and nothing will ever be said of this further, provided that you stay in counseling for a minimum of 3 months, as stated before." Foreman was still speechless. "Do I need to call security to escort you off of hospital grounds?"

The neurologist shook his head. He still looked shocked. "I was aiming for you," he stated in disbelief. "Not for him."

"Which rather negates your argument that Dr. House is the only problem area where you might lose your temper. Not that that is a valid argument anyway. If you can't work with Dr. House, you obviously cannot continue this job."

Foreman moistened his lips. "I . . . I'll think about it." He sincerely sounded like he would that time, too.

"You have until Thursday to enter therapy," Cuddy reminded him. "If you don't take steps to get help for yourself, I cannot have the liability of continuing to let you work here. Meanwhile, leave the hospital. You are on suspension."

Foreman still seemed numb. Slowly, he nodded, then turned and exited through the conference room.

Cuddy and House remained a united front until he was out of sight, and then they turned instantly on each other.

"What the hell did you think you were doing? You were _trying_ to provoke him."

"_You_ were trying to provoke him first; I just changed his aim once you started. Tackling you wouldn't prove anything. He needed to go after somebody else to believe he needs help."

"But you set yourself up . . . you _wanted_ him to go for you."

"But you were here. I knew you wouldn't really let him hurt me."

House stared at her, stunned at the unwavering confidence in her eyes. "But I'm . . . handicapped."

"Didn't look like it a minute ago," she reminded him. "That was quite a throw."

"What did you think I'd be able to do?"

"I didn't know. But I was sure you'd do _something_. His mind stops working in a crisis. Yours doesn't. And Greg, in case you didn't notice, you _did _something. You protected me."

He shook his head. "But what if I hadn't? You were willing to risk yourself to . . ."

Cuddy closed the distance, reassuring him physically. "Greg," she stated once she could speak again, "there is _no_ way that you would stand by and let your family be hurt when you were able to stop it. Not this morning, not ever. Who cares about your leg? I knew that your _mind_ was here, and your reflexes, and your analysis of any situation. I didn't know what, but I knew, if I pushed Foreman over the edge, that you would do _something_, and do it faster than he could."

Their eyes locked, and he seemed to be searching her for any doubt. There was none.

The conference room door opened. "Good morning," Kutner stated brightly. He looked from one to the other of them, their intent silence echoing. "Is something wrong?"

House took a deep breath, satisfaction warring with carpet glue. "No. Go get the ER logs. We need a case. Foreman won't be around today."

Kutner started to ask but caught Cuddy's stiffling glare. His mouth closed again, and he withdrew. Cuddy leaned in for one more kiss, then reluctantly stepped away. "I need to get to work. Are you okay?"

House nodded. "I'm okay."

"Call me if you need me. And remember, fresh air is just a few feet away."

"I will," he promised. She left, and he walked over to retrieve the thinking ball from where it had rolled away across the room after serving its purpose. Sitting back down at his desk, he tossed it, up, down, and reveled in the feeling of strong arms and coordination and balance, ready to be called on if needed.

(H/C)

Wilson had to admit, he was grateful to Cuddy. Her blunt, no-nonsense, no time-wasted approach last night had probably saved his relationship, or at least kept the candle of hope in the window. Because of her go directly home, do not pass Go, do not call Jensen, do not collect $200 advice, he had gone straight back to his apartment, and he hadn't been on the couch of remorse more than 5 minutes when the bedroom door opened, and Sandra emerged. She glanced at him, then looked away, but Wilson read her expression in that momentary glance. She had expected to find him there, had _hoped_ to find him there. She did want to know, as Cuddy had said, if he was willing to stay and work for this. "Sandra," he started.

She shook her head. "I'm not ready to talk to you yet." She went on to the kitchen, still pointedly not facing him, but her voice was tossed back over her shoulder. "You can go get a blanket and a pillow out of the bedroom, though."

Wilson stood up with a sigh and trudged into the bedroom. By the time he had retrieved extra bedding and made a more permanent nest on the couch, she was finished preparing her snack. Without a backward glance, she walked past him and returned to the bedroom, but he knew she was aware of him, and the door didn't slam so hard it quivered on the hinges this time.

Resigned, Wilson settled back to his first night in the dog house.

Thinking things over at PPTH on Tuesday morning, though, he was grateful for Cuddy's advice. He hated to think what Sandra would have concluded if he had been missing when she emerged. Part of him still wished for an owner's manual, though. There had to be a guide written down _somewhere_.

Wilson lost himself in his patients, trying to lay low, afraid to encounter Cuddy again. Around noon, though, House opened the office door, typically without knocking. "Ready to buy me lunch?" he asked.

Wilson stood up, checking his wallet. "I hadn't realized what time it was." He studied House, who still didn't look quite as usual. The tension was apparent, at least to Wilson, and was mixed with adrenaline. House looked wired. "Are you . . ."

"Hungry? Yes, I am. Let's go." House started toward the elevator without waiting, and Wilson hurried to catch up with him. "So," House started as he pushed the button. "I hear you finally told her. You still seem to be breathing."

"Not dead yet. Just in the dog house." The elevator door opened, and Wilson resigned himself to a lunch of needling from his friend. He knew better than to expect House to talk about his own situation while eating. What House wanted right now was a diversion.

(H/C)

House had just returned to his office after lunch, flinching slightly at the slap of the carpet glue as he entered, when his cell phone rang, and he pulled it out to check caller ID.

It was the prosecutor.


	70. Chapter 70

Thanks again to my retired prosecutor friend for various legal info. She hasn't worked in that field for a few years, and she was never a prosecutor in New Jersey, but she said that most of the process and time frames for handling the accused from arrest through trial is actually federal law, not state, because it has emerged from various US Supreme Court decisions, as did the Miranda warning, for instance. A US Supreme Court decision is, of course, applicable in all 50 states. Anyway, thanks to her again; sorry for any errors that slipped past us anyway. Thanks for reading!

By the way, if you're still reading this series, you already know that it deals with abuse and sensitive subjects, but this particular chapter is especially direct. Proceed with caution.

(H/C)

House dropped into his desk chair, forcing himself to sit down. His heart rate had already picked up just from caller ID. He automatically reached for the thinking ball, which had already served him so well today, to have something comforting to fiddle with as he answered. "House."

"Dr. House, this is Prosecutor Martin. Do you have a few minutes to discuss things?"

House glanced into the conference room. Kutner had found a patient, which had been a welcome distraction for House this morning after Foreman's explosion, but Kutner and Taub were apparently still running the latest round of tests. "Yes. What's going on?"

"First of all, I will be filing charges on Chandler this afternoon. I'm delaying that until the end of the afternoon to give our resident technical wizard as much time as possible to keep going through that laptop. I want to list all I can on the original complaint. I do need to file charges soon, though. By federal law, we can only hold somebody 48 hours without formal charges. He's charged in Kentucky, of course, but those aren't as serious as ours, and if we send him to Kentucky without being charged here, he'd have a chance at bailing out."

"What's on the laptop?" House insisted. He'd been running a mental differential on that for the last day.

"Quite a bit already, and Simmons is still working on it, just to make sure he doesn't miss anything. It's extensively passworded at every turn. He's the best, but it took him a while to crack each level. There are pictures." The prosecutor paused for a second. He was used to the cut and thrust of his work, but some things you never got used to, or never should, even if they were a regular part of your job. "We have pictures of twelve children, including Christopher. Posed in various positions, both naked and clothed, tied, gagged."

House swallowed, firmly informing his lunch that it would stay down where he had put it. "CPS did a very thorough autopsy on Christopher, and they were specifically looking for abuse."

"I've talked to the doctor who did that. There was no physical evidence of violation. I think Chandler is one of those sick bastards who just gets off on _looking_ at kids, on restraining them. He probably would masturbate to the pictures later as he relived it."

House shook his head. John had enjoyed tying him up and standing there in uniform looking at him, but it had been pure humiliation, simple assessment of weakness, nothing sexual. "_Twelve_ children?"

"Yes. There is also a . . . I guess you could call it a diary of sorts. Names, key words, memory triggers. One entry, for instance, reads, 'Christopher, shed, rope, 8 minutes.'"

House swallowed again. "So we've got him cold on the evidence."

"I don't think they will be able to dispute the fact that abuse occurred. Being sexually oriented raises it to the highest class of felony. I've also been in contact with Michigan and with Missouri; they are starting their own investigations. Kentucky is waiting in line at the moment. I think we certainly have enough to ask for life in prison without parole. We're still digging into the laptop, though, and I also have a witness to everything Simmons is doing. I don't want _any_ chance that somebody claims those pictures were tampered with after being in custody. Simmons isn't through all programs yet, which is why I'm delaying charges a little longer. There are also things that don't make sense to us yet. For instance, there is one line in the diary from this last Friday which means nothing at all to us. It doesn't seem to fit the context of all the other entries about the children."

"What's that one?" House asked, still irrepressibly curious even while feeling sick at the details of Patrick's activities.

"I will kill her, and it will be your fault," Martin quoted, his tone puzzled.

House froze, the thinking ball rolling away from suddenly numb fingers. John's voice echoed Martin's, backed up by John's sadistic laughter. _If you tell anyone, I will kill her, and it will be your fault._ The picture. Patrick had wanted a picture of his parents together. Patrick had enjoyed posing and setting up his own pictures for emotional effect. House suddenly _knew_ what Patrick had planned for the next move. He had wanted a picture of Blythe and John, one from the home that House had presumably seen before, so that he could physically deface it, probably ripping Blythe out of the frame, leaving only John with his sadistic, imperial smile, and then writing that quote across the bottom. No doubt it would have been left on House's desk or even delivered by special messenger in an envelope and handed to him publicly.

And that would have worked. Blindsided with something like that in front of his eyes, he would not have been able to fight the black hole of the past. He would have broken completely down in front of everybody. House could feel his throat tightening up now, his pulse racing. The carpet glue was many times stronger than just a minute ago. He could almost hear John's laughter, feel his hands tightening down around his neck.

He lurched to his feet and staggered without cane to the balcony door, just a few feet away as Cuddy had promised, although those few feet seemed endless. His vision was graying out around the edges. He ripped the door open and stumbled onto the balcony, the cold, fresh air a slap in the face, but one which helped ground him, helped remind him of the present. There was oxygen out here at least, but his pulse was still pounding in his ears, sounding like his father's approaching footsteps. House fumbled in his pocket, retrieving the bottle of Ativan, and took one. The world slowly began to steady around the edges. He stood out on the balcony without a coat, sucking down deep gulps of air.

The cell phone. He suddenly realized that he was still holding the cell phone in his left hand, and it was squawking at him. He picked it up to his ear. ". . . there?" came Martin's worried voice.

"I . . . yes . . . I'm here."

"Are you okay? It sounded like something fell over."

"I banged into my chair in my office and tripped," House lied instantly. "Bum leg, you know." He _couldn't_ talk about the picture. Not right now. Maybe at some point, with a bit more detachment, he would tell Martin what that phrase meant, assuming that Martin didn't work part of it out himself. They no doubt had Blythe's therapy notes, although with the focus on the laptop, they wouldn't have read each line in the notes yet, not when House had given them a summary of his background himself in his statement yesterday. Racing the 48-hour deadline, they would be gathering as much _new_ information as possible. Examining each comma on what they already knew they had would come between now and the trial.

It was evidence. Those therapy notes were evidence. Dozens of people no doubt would see them during processing. House sucked in a few more deep breaths. The Ativan was helping.

Martin hesitated, then continued. "Did you hear what I said last?"

"Um, what was that?" House steeled himself, just in case, but he thought there was an undefined gap time between Martin's quote from the diary and him staggering to his feet and leaving the office, which was what the other man presumably had heard. House looked back into the office. His desk chair was actually turned over and sprawled on the floor, the cane beside it. He ran a hand down his leg apologetically, realizing for the first time that it felt like he had bumped it on something in his frantic exit.

"I was saying, the crime lab is still processing the house, too, of course. But that laptop is a gold mine."

House nodded. "So you might not need me after all?"

"Oh, no, we definitely need you," Martin stated quickly. "In fact, I think we might need you more than ever. You give a _human_ side of dealing with him, one that he didn't manage to totally deceive like the women. I don't have any word about possible defense yet. Chandler - and Travis - are both absolutely silent. Andrews is singing like a lark, but he doesn't know that much. However, I've been through enough cases to develop an instinct for what might be coming. As far as I see it, now that we have the laptop, Chandler has only one possibility to successfully plead not guilty."

House's curiosity surged back to the forefront, displacing John. "What the hell could that be? I don't see _any_ way to plead not guilty with the laptop."

"I think they will probably go for the insanity defense."

House shook his head. "No. He's a sociopath, but he's definitely sane."

"It's just a feeling at this stage, but I'll be surprised if I'm not right. There are, unfortunately shady psychiatrists, just as there are shady lawyers. Travis, for instance, has already been replaced by another similar snake as Chandler's defense attorney. I think they might try dissociative disorder, schizophrenia, even multiple personality disorder."

"Multiple personality disorder is a load of bullshit," House stated emphatically.

"Personally, I agree, but there is precedent. For instance, Billy Milligan in the late 1970s was found not guilty of serial rape by reason of insanity in Ohio. His defense was that his other personalities committed the rapes instead. The other obvious advantage to Chandler is that an insanity ruling would place him in a psychiatric hospital and not in the mainstream prison. You know what happens to child abusers in prison."

House closed his eyes. "So you need me to testify how absolutely rational, calculating, and cold he is."

"Yes. His whole campaign against you is a good example of how he can be manipulative at the same time as he appears concerned and helpful. You _saw_ him misleading Ann Bellinger. You can testify to your observations about his modus operandi. Not that you are a psychiatrist, but you are a world-renowed doctor. Your perceptions will carry some weight here. I'm afraid that the women, given the type that Chandler picked, would be much easier to manipulate on the stand, making it appear as if they knew a different man, or a different side of him, than the one who committed these acts. He completely duped them at the time, and they had _no_ suspicions. They will have to admit that on cross, and that _can_ be twisted into supporting evidence that he wasn't in fact aware of everything he was doing."

House sighed. "Okay. I told you yesterday I'll testify. If I can help send this monster to prison instead of some psych ward, I'll do whatever I can. We'll have time before the trial, though; I'm sure we'll be talking several more times before then."

"Well . . . technically yes, but actually, you'll be in court next week."

House nearly dropped the phone. "Next _week?_ I . . . trials take forever. _Everybody_ knows that. It can't happen that fast."

Martin sighed. "I'm sorry." House flinched. "But there is a whole process from the time of arrest until the final official trial, and there are several steps along that road. I have 48 hours to file formal charges, as I said. However, there must then be a preliminary evidentiary hearing in front of a judge, and I have to present my case, as much of it as I have by then, at that point. It's a precaution in the legal system to get an objective assessment from a judge that there really is enough evidence to go on to full trial. It helps decrease the possibility that an innocent person is being held for trial without merit. That hearing must take place within 10 days if the accused is being held in custody - and I don't think Chandler has a hope of bail when I file tonight, not on multiple sexual child abuse charges that extend right up to the present. If the accused isn't being held in custody, I have 21 days for the hearing, but we're looking at the 10-day timeline in this instance. I'll have to present my case next week. The defense doesn't have to present their case then, and quite often they reserve defense, but they do have right of cross-examination of all of my witnesses, and most of the time, they use that to the fullest extent. It is their first look at the official evidence against their client, and they want the most complete first look that they can, as well as an initial read on witnesses. Information they get there is very useful to them at the full trial later. Of course, I do have to reveal all evidence and witnesses to them eventually, and they also do to me, to give us each a chance to prepare. There is a time limit before the final trial after which period no new evidence can be introduced, because putting it in at the last minute would violate discovery process for the other side, but that's a long way down the road. Next week will be in effect a preliminary trial, but the burden of proof is definitely on me. They also will have the opportunity then to request that Chandler be committed to a psych hospital for evaluation pending trial instead of held in prison. I _need_ you at that hearing."

House was still horrified, even while part of his mind absorbed the data. "Next _week_?" he repeated.

"Yes." Martin sounded sympathetic. "I know this will be difficult for you, but we have to hold that hearing within 10 days. There's no way around it. I'd like to meet with you again, maybe tomorrow morning, to go over your evidence. Could you do that?"

House was breathing a bit rapidly again. Next week. _Next week_. Not some undefined point months in the future. He didn't have the luxury of all of this time Cuddy and Jensen had been telling him he had to prepare. He was going to have to be ready. If he weren't, Patrick might wind up going to a psych hospital instead of rotting in jail where he belonged. "I . . . yes, I can meet you tomorrow. What time?"

"Could you make 9:00, my office?"

"I'll be there."

"I do appreciate it, Dr. House. Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow." Martin hung up.

House limped forward to the wall and leaned on it, heedless of the snow along the top. Next week. Next week. He had to get ready for this. He had to get a grip on himself.

"House?" He turned to see Kutner and Taub standing in the doorway, looking from him to the upended chair and cane in the floor, then back to him. "Are you okay?" Kutner asked.

"Fine," House replied. "Got the tests?"

Kutner was still studying him. "Why are you out on the balcony without a coat and without your cane?"

"Because I wanted some fresh air." House did realize at Kutner's words how cold he was. He limped back across the balcony, his hand gripping his leg. "What about the patient?" He came in and closed the door. Kutner handed him his cane, then carefully set the chair upright. Kutner still looked rather worried.

Taub plunged into the requested details on the patient, and House led the remnants of his team into the conference room. Another whiteboard session later, they were off again, and he went back into his office, sat down at the desk, and opened his own laptop.

Next week. Next week. He had to get ready, had to toughen himself up by then. He had no choice. He searched online for a few minutes, then stood up, carefully taking his cane and his coat with him this time, and went down to Cuddy's office.

Cuddy had just finished one appointment and had resumed sorting behind paperwork from yesterday when he burst into the office without knocking. She looked up, surprised, then worried. He looked absolutely taut. "Greg? Are you okay?"

"Fine," he replied automatically. "How would you like to take the rest of the afternoon off with me?"

She couldn't resist a look at the paperwork, a look he misinterpreted. "Forget it," he stated. "I'll see you at home later."

"Wait a minute!" Cuddy bolted out from behind her desk and caught him before he reached the door. "What's going on, Greg?"

"You're busy, obviously. I don't want to bother you."

"Stop it. If you really need me, the paperwork can wait. Now what did you want, Greg? Has something else happened?"

"I wanted to take the rest of the afternoon off with you," he repeated. "In fact, I want the rest of the afternoon off even without you. Patient is stable; Tweedledee and Tweedledum have cell phones. They can keep working without me here."

Cuddy was still trying to sort out the situation. "What are you going to do with the rest of the afternoon, Greg?"

He met her worried gaze with a look of terrified defiance. "I'm going to go to a funeral."


	71. Chapter 71

Who-hoo, 1000 reviews! Thank you all for coming along with me on this massive, complicated story. I know it's been a twisting road at times. Your support is greatly appreciated.

(H/C)

Cuddy stared at House. "You want to go to a funeral? _Whose_ funeral?"

He shrugged. "Oh, anybody's; doesn't really matter. As long as it's somebody I don't know; that might be pushing it too much all at once. There's one at Smith Brothers Funeral Home at 2:00, and there's one at the Methodist church at 2:30. Either one of those would be fine." His restless fingers worried at the handle of his cane, never still.

Cuddy was floundering, trying to slot this conversation into any sort of context. "Greg, _what_ is going on? You were okay when I called you just before lunch. Has something happened since then?"

"Nothing more important than your paperwork, obviously," he replied. "Sorry I bothered you. See you tonight." He again started to leave, and she instantly circled to the front, physically blocking the door.

"Oh, no, you don't. You are _not_ walking out of here without an explanation. You're not walking out of here alone at this point even _with_ an explanation. You're not getting rid of me."

"I saw you look at that paperwork," he challenged. "I did come down to get you, give me credit for that, but you clearly have different priorities, at least at the moment."

She sighed. "Greg, you're misreading this. _Yes_, I looked at the paperwork when you asked if we could take the rest of the day off, but _no_, I wasn't thinking it was more important than you were. I had been sorting it out, prioritizing, and I was just reassessing it along those lines, whether anything was urgent enough that I needed to delegate it if I left, or if it could wait until later."

He studied her, his blue eyes reminding her of lasers at the moment, dissecting down to her soul. She held steady beneath his surgical gaze with the confidence of truth, and he was the first to look away. "Okay. Come if you want, then." He tried to duck around her and head for the door again, and she sidestepped, still blocking him.

"_Why _did you just decide since lunch that you need to go to any random funeral today?"

He looked at his watch. "No time right now. We'll be late to the 2:00."

She squared her shoulders, immovable. "We'll go to the one at 2:30, then. Remember last week, after Hadley's funeral, talking about the importance of communication? No more secrets from each other, not on important things. I can tell right now that you're dodging telling me because you're afraid I'll try to stop you. But you came down here anyway, Greg. You _know_ I need to be with you on this." She gripped both arms with her hands. "Please, Greg, whatever it is, let me in."

He sighed. "The prosecutor called. Lots on the laptop; I'll tell you that later. But he thinks Patrick's only real defense left is insanity, multiple personality disorder or some similar crap, and he thinks I'm the most rational and least manipulated of his witnesses, so I'll be the main argument against that. But there's a preliminary hearing long before the main trial. Prosecution has to put on the case then; defense doesn't, but they can cross-examine all they want. I'll be on the stand next week." His voice tightened up again at the impact of those final two words.

"Next _week_?" Cuddy shook her head, thinking she'd heard wrong.

He nodded. "Next week. And they might petition to have him put in a psych hospital for evaluation pending trial. Martin's expecting problems with the women, too gullible. He's _counting_ on me; he said so. But if I. . . if I break, if I can't keep a handle on things, this bastard could avoid prison. He'd have _fun_ in a psych ward, pulling the wool over their eyes, playing a role. Do that for a while, then get _better_, and then he walks." House shivered. "And _I'm _the main witness who has to stop him."

Cuddy pulled him against her, hugging him tightly instead of restraining him now. His muscles were like tightwires, and she could feel his slightly accelerated breathing. "It will be okay, Greg. You can get through this. We'll help you."

He leaned into her for a moment, unable to resist the comfort at least temporarily, and then pulled away, looking at his watch again. "We need to get going. We'll be late. I mean, I _want_ to be a little late, so we can sit in back and not explain ourselves to people, but I need to be there for as much of it as possible, too."

"Wait a minute," Cuddy objected. "How does a hearing next week equate to you having to go to a funeral this aft . . ." She trailed off as realization dawned. "You're _trying_ to freak yourself out, aren't you?"

He shook his head. "Couldn't be more wrong. I'm trying _not_ to freak myself out. Big difference there."

Cuddy's tone was disbelieving. "And you think _that's_ the best strategy to prepare for the hearing? You're going to spend basically the next full week trying as hard as you can to stay around triggers constantly just to make yourself take it?"

House nodded. "That's the general idea, yes."

Oh boy, she thought. Where on earth could she start with this one? "Greg, um, I'm not sure that's the best approach here."

He pulled away and paced a rapid limping circle in her office. "Of _course_ it's not the best approach, but it's the only one we've got _time_ for. You and Jensen have kept telling me I don't have to do this now, but that argument just went out the window. We don't have months to prepare for this, Lisa. I have to testify _next week_. I've got to toughen myself up before then, or I'll never get through it."

She was scrambling mentally and grasped at the sturdiest ally she had. "Have you talked to Jensen about this?"

"No, he'd be in an appointment. He does have a job other than just me, you know. Besides, if I can hold out until 8:00 tonight, I actually would have made it 24 hours without talking to my psychiatrist. There has to be an award for that, a gold star or something. What an achievement. I wonder how many people in America have managed it today." He was still orbiting the office, just about making her dizzy.

"Greg, if you called him and left a message, he could call back between appointments."

He skidded to a stop and pivoted to face her, flinching as the leg protested. "_No._" That couldn't possibly have been more resolute. "I'll update him tonight. I'm not going to bother him at work before then. What I _am_ going to do is go to a funeral. Come on, if you're sure the paperwork can spare you."

Cuddy resigned herself to the fact that she and she alone would be permitted on the front lines in his battle at the moment. "Okay, Greg. I'll go with you. But we aren't exactly dressed for . . . never mind." She knew that argument had zero chance with him. She returned to her desk, picked up her purse, then diverted on her way out into her private bathroom. "Just a second; have to make a stop first." He nodded, having resumed his pacing circle, too agitated to stand still while waiting.

Cuddy closed the bathroom door, then whipped out her cell phone and quickly sent a text to Jensen, keeping him as much in the loop as possible. He would have his hands full tonight when House talked to him, and House would no doubt be even more wired after his self-imposed agenda of mental torture for this afternoon. Besides, she hadn't given up hope for some urgent strategy advice for her, even if her painfully bull-headed husband wouldn't accept any himself. _Prosecutor called. Prelim hearing next week. Greg main witness. Decided to spend next week 24/7 trying to freak himself out to prepare. Going to a funeral now. PLEASE call tonight. Don't call now; don't think he'd answer. Won't listen to reason at all at the moment. HELP. _

She quickly put away the phone, flushed the toilet, and emerged. "Okay, Greg, let's go."

He looked at his watch again. "Let's make the Methodist one. Too late for Smith's. If we're early to the 2:30, we can sit in the car." He was out the door of her office as if released from a cage, his rapid limp across the lobby even challenging her own stride.

They got to the Methodist church at 2:32, and he launched himself out of the car almost before the engine was off. His stride was choppy, as if his legs themselves were rebelling at the current course, but his direction was fairly straight. Cuddy had put her phone on vibrate, and she had felt it buzz against her leg as she put the car in park. She pulled it out for a quick look. _You: Breathe. Him: Ativan if he'll take it. STAY WITH HIM. Talk tonight._

She took a deep breath as directed and wished that the psychiatrist were here with them. Getting out of the car, she hurried across the parking lot to catch her husband, and they opened the main doors together, both of them flinching slightly at the mournful organ dirge that surged out to surround them. House came to a dead halt, and Cuddy had one second of hope that he would run; she could feel him quivering slightly beside her. In the next instant, though, he pushed on into the building. With another deep breath, she entered with him.


	72. Chapter 72

Thanks for the reviews! Yep, the House family (and Jensen) are in for an, um, interesting night on this Tuesday night. I was surprised myself at this twist when the plot was developing, but I agree that it is _so_ House. Also agree with Cuddy's upcoming summation of this entire strategy when she completely snaps with him in the next chapter.

(H/C)

House lurched into the main auditorium, all of his normal grace and coordination gone. He dropped into the very back pew as if he'd been shot and fallen there. In fact, he sat down so close to the aisle, in the first adequate space, that Cuddy had to climb over him to sit down herself. She picked up his left hand and squeezed it tightly. "Greg," she whispered. "Do you still have the Ativan Jensen gave you?"

To this point, he had only been staring at the hymn book holder in front of them as if unable to look at the people or at the coffin at the head of the aisle. He stirred at her words, his eyes turning to meet hers. "Um . . . yes . . . but I took one . . . 2 hours ago."

"You can take another one. It's one of the shortest-acting drugs in that class."

He shook his head, determination etched painfully into every line of his face. "Not unless I have to."

Cuddy sighed. "Greg, you won't prove anything if you . . ."

"If I totally can't take it? Actually I will. I'll prove that Patrick will have his way next week, and all those kids don't get justice because _I_ would have let them down." With a jerk, he wrenched his eyes away from her and forced himself to look at the crowd.

"Greg!" Cuddy hissed, but she didn't think he heard her. His eyes were widening as he studied the people. She squeezed his hand again and took a second to look around herself. This was a fairly well-attended funeral, which suited their purposes nicely. The deceased, whoever he or she had been, had obviously had friends. The coffin sat open at the front of the aisle, and Cuddy strained her eyes. Hard to tell from her point of view, seated at the clear back of the room, but she thought it might be a woman; she caught a wisp of gray hair protruding from the coffin into her line of sight, and it looked permed. An entire forest of flowers filled the front of the church. Someone had just gone up to the platform and started a eulogy, which she tuned out. She looked back at her husband. His eyes were fixed on the people, not the coffin, and she could feel his rapid breathing. She tightened her grip on his hand.

House stared at the people, John's voice absolutely clear just over his shoulder. _You'd ruin it for everybody, boy. They'd all be looking at you, talking about you. You screw up everything; you couldn't even go to a funeral right. It'd be an insult to the person they really came for._

The people were sitting there respectfully. Nobody had turned, but right then, the woman about to give a eulogy looked directly at him, unmistakable focus, slight curiosity rippling across her grief-filled face. House cringed, trying to retreat backwards into the seat cushions, trying to make himself smaller. It didn't work just as it had never worked in childhood.

Cuddy. He suddenly became aware of Cuddy, now stroking his hand. At John's funeral, there had only been the anger of being kidnapped, the judgmentalism of Wilson, the inevitable solitude of being all alone with the true facts, alone just as he had been most of his life; even when he had honestly tried to bring up the subject of his father on that drive, the world simply wasn't interested in hearing the truth - and yes, there had been the curiosity, the longing to _see_ his father laid low in that coffin and unable to get up and berate him. He had used that novel image, his father finally motionless and powerless in front of him, to root himself in the present. He had ridden the anger and curiosity through the ordeal and managed to make it with a fairly stolid front, at least until the point when he knew, at the coffin, that he would crack soon if he stayed there and had left early. But there had not been active support and understanding from someone who knew his thoughts. He looked over at his wife, meeting her unmistakably concerned eyes.

The voice drifted in. "We are here today to remember the life of Margaret Templeton. Most of us knew Mother as a friend, as someone who was always there to help, as someone with a wonderful sense of humor. She . . ."

John spoke up again, directly behind him, and House jumped. _At your own funeral, nobody will be able to find anything good to say. You know why? Because there isn't anything. That's your eulogy, boy. You're just a pathetic, weak, miserable failure. They'll all stand up and laugh. That's right; they'll look at you lying there and laugh. Just like I'm doing right now, you pathetic loser._

"Greg?" Cuddy whispered. He didn't hear her; she could tell. He was fixed on the eulogy-giver up front, but his look didn't waver even when she finished and left the platform. Cuddy could feel him trembling, the private internal earthquake growing stronger.

Music again, one of her favorite hymns, the minister said. House didn't react, and that's when she knew he was completely locked into the past, not even wrestling hung between past and present anymore. For him to be oblivious to music was a dead giveaway. "Greg!" she whispered. She stroked his hand, fingernails digging in slightly. He didn't move. The music ended, and another speaker took the platform. "Greg!" That was a little louder, still soft but loud enough that the last pew of mourners a few rows in front of them heard. They turned, twisting around to shoot reproachful looks toward Cuddy and House.

House bolted.

Nearly tripping over the end of the pew as he erupted from it, he caught himself with his cane and limped brokenly toward the door. Cuddy was right with him, opening the door for his blind escape. Across the lobby, out of the building. He came to a halt outside on the front stairs, gulping down deep breaths of air as if there hadn't been any oxygen in that room. His body was still quivering. "Greg," she stated, her voice sharp with concern, "take the damn Ativan!" He was leaning on the railing, pretty much physically held up by it. Cuddy reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of bottles, finding the correct one and shoving the pill at him. He hesitated, then took it obediently. She put an arm around him, pulling him tightly against her. "It's okay," she repeatedly softly. "It's okay."

He shook his head. "They were . . . _looking _at me. . . I ruined it, just like he said."

"No, Greg, they were looking at _me_."

He turned to give her a look of pure confusion. His breathing was stabilizing a bit, she noted. "Why on earth would they be looking at you?"

"Because I was a little too loud. That was a general censure, Greg. They weren't judging you."

He shook his head. "You'd never do anything wrong at a funeral."

She gritted her teeth. "Greg, they were looking at _me_. Trust me." She realized now that her own voice, rising in volume, hadn't penetrated the clouds of the past, and he had no idea she had been calling him. He'd simply, gripped in John's predictions, seen the people turn and look back disapprovingly. "I was calling you, and I got too loud. That was all. It wasn't you."

His eyes were dubious. Just then, his cell phone rang, the Mmm Bop a stark contrast to the mournful organ they had just left. He pulled it out and sighed. "Guess Tweedledee and Tweedledum need some help after all." He hit the button. "House."

Cuddy watched him, both appreciating the team's timing and fascinated. It was amazing how he could change gears from personal angst into differential almost immediately. So compartmentalized his mind was. Actually, she realized, it had been a requirement from childhood on. He never could have kept the secret to protect Blythe, nor hidden the depth of his own problems for so long if school, then work and career hadn't occupied a completely different mental galaxy. She still berated herself for never putting together what now seemed so obvious, but she was glad he had had one area of pure competency and success, one anchor to attach at least some self-esteem to through the years. It had helped steady him, had been a refuge for him. As it was now. By the time he finished a several-minute session with the team, he was looking better, though still had that rock-hard stubbornness in his eyes.

He hung up. Cuddy was suddenly seized with a mental image of Mmm Bop sounding in the auditorium in the middle of the funeral and was unable to stifle the giggle. He looked at her curiously. "What's the joke? I could use one."

"I was just thinking. The people _were_ looking at me, trust me, but if you'd left a few minutes later and your team called with that ringtone in the middle of a eulogy, they probably _would_ have been looking at you."

He snickered himself. "Don't think that's appropriate funeral music?"

"No." She squeezed his arm. "Let's just go home, Greg. We've got the rest of the afternoon off, after all. You talked me into it." Maybe she could distract him with the girls.

He tightened up again instantly, shaking his head. "You can go home if you like, but I need to go shopping."

She stared at him. "_Shopping?_ What on earth do you . . . wait a minute, Greg. This is ridiculous."

His shoulders squared defiantly. "This _isn't_ ridiculous. That hearing is _next week_. This funeral just showed how much work I've got to do before then."

Cuddy sighed. "Greg . . ."

Right then, the doors behind them opened, spilling out a river of mourners, people exiting the church. House tensed up even more, but they were still standing on the front steps, and they had no chance to avoid being caught by the crowd. Cuddy tucked his left arm firmly under hers. "Come on. We're just walking to the car, same as all of them." She couldn't deny, though, that they were definitely drawing curious looks at the moment, friends and relatives trying to place them.

House walked along beside her down the steps, and they were halfway to the car when a voice rang out from the top of the stairs, carrying all the way to the parking lot. "Dr. House!" House stopped and turned, disbelieving. A woman, the one who had given the first eulogy, was hurrying down the steps toward them.

"Who's that?" Cuddy whispered.

"I have _no_ idea," he replied.

The woman was almost to them, the crowd respectfully parting for her. "Dr. House, I thought that was you. I couldn't believe it when I saw you sitting in the back. I can't believe you took the time out of your busy schedule and patients to come pay your last respects to Mother; that was _so_ thoughtful. She talked about you, you know."

House was floundering, one of the few times when he was caught mentally off his feet. "I, um, was just trying to fit it into this afternoon."

"Even though he does have a patient right now," Cuddy provided. "In fact, he got a call on a consultation just a few minutes ago; that's why we had to step outside early. But we wanted to give our respects to your mother."

The woman had captured House's arm and was squeezing it. "I'll never forget what you did for Mother. None of us will. No one else had been able to help, but because of you, we got six more wonderful years with her." She hugged him. "_Thank you_, Dr. House. Thank you so much for what you did for Mother and our family."

"You're . . . welcome," House replied. "It was my pleasure."

"And then to even come to her funeral. I appreciate it. We all do." She gave him a final squeeze, then let go.

A commotion sounded at the head of the stairs. The coffin with pallbearers was about to leave the building. Cuddy spoke up instantly. "We are so sorry for your loss, but we have to get back to the hospital now. His team just called, like I said."

"Of course." The woman stepped back. "Thank you again, Dr. House."

Cuddy turned him quickly, resuming their trek toward the car, hoping he wouldn't try to prove his stubbornness by looking back and facing the coffin as it exited and was carried to the hearse. He walked along willingly beside her, though, and once they were in the car, he chuckled. "I have _no_ idea who those people were."

"You apparently saved her life just the same." She gripped his hand. "_That's_ how you have touched people's lives, Greg. It's positive." He still didn't look fully convinced, and she sighed and turned the car on. "Okay, hospital or home?"

His shoulders squared, the stubbornness flaring up into bright flames again. "Nice try. I told you, I'm going shopping. You can go wherever you want, though. Just take me back to pick up my car at PPTH."

"No way. We go together, wherever we go." She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, trying and failing to mentally channel Jensen. How could she stop this runaway train?

"You have to put it out of park to go anywhere," he pointed out. She sighed and put the car into gear, pulling out onto the road.

"Where to?"

He was thinking. "Hardware store, camping supply, and then a tack shop."

"A _tack shop?_"

He nodded. "I need to buy a horse whip."

Cuddy slammed on the brakes, coming to a full stop in the middle of the block. "_No,_ damn it. You are _not_ going to actually hurt yourself. I'll put my foot down there."

"I'm not going to hurt myself, Lisa. Seeing it just . . . reminds me . . ." His breathing was picking up again. "Forget it." He opened the passenger's door as a car beeped behind them. "See you at home."

Fortunately, he was extremely slow on the turn required to exit a car. Cuddy floored it while he was still safely inside, and the momentum blew the car door shut again. Resigned, she headed for the main shopping district, but her fingers were still drumming the wheel. His eyes were out the window but clearly not seeing the passing snowscape. They drove across town in silence.


	73. Chapter 73

For Cuddy, Tuesday afternoon was one of the longest of her life. It was like watching a bridge collapse, seeing the inevitability yet also marveling that such disaster almost seemed to play out in slow-motion, the structure yielding so stubbornly piece by piece.

Of course, she had always known that House could be terrifying at times with the single-minded intensity of his focus, oblivious to himself and his surroundings, fixed only on the goal. Usually, that side of him only emerged at his work, when he was plunged deep into a case, and the staff at PPTH knew that the best thing was to simply stay out of his way. He would not divert from his assigned task until it was completed. Normally, though, his assigned task was at least logical, the saving of a patient's life, and everything worked toward that goal. On his current quest to "toughen himself up" before testifying, he was frightening her - for himself and for the family as a whole. She knew that there was no way he would last through a week of this. She only hoped he wouldn't totally break down before tonight when Jensen could actively join the ranks.

She tried herself to talk to him, of course, but he really saw no other alternative than this extended mental torture. Furthermore, the more she protested, the more he thought of giving her the slip to spare her the stress watching was apparently causing and simply continuing with the afternoon on his own. Jensen's capitalized and emphasized command of STAY WITH HIM overrode everything else, even her own worried frustration. And Jensen was right; she truly didn't think he was safe alone right now. Snapping completely with him would just encourage him to shut her out, and losing him in Princeton would be a disaster. She had to get him home, and then they could work on knocking sense into his stubborn head tonight.

Then there was the shopping. Cuddy would never be able to look at certain routine items the same way again. Rope. The horse whip, which he took a long time selecting, obviously picking a specific style and type to match up to memory. The process was lengthened by his having to bolt out of the store three times during selection, and finally, they went to a different tack shop altogether when one of the horsey teenaged girls hanging around in the first one made a half-joking, half-curious inquiry as to his intentions after the last time he came back in. She and her giggling companions obviously thought that this was intended not for a horse but for the bedroom and that he was working up his courage and fighting embarrassment to actually buy one. At the camping supply, House had picked up matches, a propane lantern, and a small pup tent. Putting those in the car afterward, he had abruptly pivoted away and vomited in the middle of the parking lot. Cuddy's concern and urgent suggestion that they just go home only ended in him turning away wordlessly and setting off on his own on foot toward the hardware store a few blocks distant. She chased him down, and he got in the car silently after that once assured they would go together to his destination. At the hardware store, the list of things he wanted was yet another step in the process of household tools developing sinister overtones. He got a hammer, a screwdriver, again taking a long time over size and style, and a set of vise grips, his hands shaking so badly on the latter that he dropped them several times in the store. What the hell did you do with vise grips? Were it not to give him company in the knowledge, she didn't think she ever wanted to know.

At least he didn't insist on buying carpet glue, probably because he already had a nice if subtle reminder of that in his office.

Outside the hardware store, she finished loading the sacks into the back seat, then got in and turned to face him. He was sitting in the passenger's seat, pale and sweating by now, his muscles almost twitching. "Greg," she said once again, trying to be the voice of reason, "there has to be another way. We'll find something. This is insane."

Without a word, he opened the car door again, starting the laborious turn to get out, and she reached over to grab his arm and jerk him back hard enough that he looked at her in surprise. "You are NOT doing this alone."

"If it's stressing you out, you don't have to watch," he stated.

She rolled her eyes. "Listen, you idiot, we are in this TOGETHER. Get it? I just think that together, we have to be able to find another way. You're never going to make it through a week of this."

She knew instantly that her last line had been the wrong thing to say. He straightened up defiantly. "Yes, I will, because if I don't, I'll never get through the hearing and be able to testify. I _have_ to get ready." He turned to look out the car window, but the lines of his face were set rock solid.

She sighed and looked at her watch. "We really do need to get home now. Marina will be leaving soon." He didn't respond, which was at least a step up from the last several times she had suggested going home, all of which had been met with another shopping destination. Maybe she could finally get him home now. Distract him and let him decompress with the girls for an hour or two, then have Jensen call right at their bedtime, before House had a chance to get involved in other trigger exercises. Maybe the time with his children would settle him down some. "Greg," she said. She had to repeat his name four times before he reacted. He didn't turn to face her, but she saw his expression focus. "Greg, I want you to promise me something." He was already tensing up, preparing for battle. "Don't do . . . whatever you are thinking of doing with those things in front of the girls, okay? They wouldn't understand. While they're awake, they just want to spend time with their father. Please don't drag our children into this preparation campaign." That registered at least, his expression softening slightly for the first time. She pushed her advantage. "Let's just go home and have dinner and some time with them before bed. Okay? Everything else can wait a few hours."

He let out a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay." He twisted around, looking at the sacks in the back seat, and his expression was heartbreaking. He had been three when it started, she knew. Just a year older than Rachel. She wondered which of these implements he had been "introduced" to first at that young age.

Home was like a breath of fresh air. The girls were delighted to see them, Rachel as rambunctious as always, Abby with her quiet smile. Cuddy made sure that Abby was latched firmly onto him, arms around his neck, and Rachel occupied with showing him something before she allowed herself a brief time out. "I'm going to the bathroom, okay? Back in just a minute, and then I'll fix dinner."

"Okay," he replied, his attention on the girls, although that bottomless sadness of looking at them was still in his eyes.

She hurried back, taking her purse with her, and whipped out her cell phone, sending an update to Jensen. _This is a disaster. Couldn't stay at funeral. Then went shopping for props. No idea what half of that stuff even reminds him of. He's driving himself crazy. Tried to lose me any time I objected; would have done it anyway alone. Finally home with girls now. Hope to distract him an hour or two with them. Promised not to try anything in front of them. He needs the break. Please call about 7:00 if you can. Girls would have just gone to bed. He badly needs help tonight. _

She hit send, took a deep breath, then realized suddenly that she really did have to use the bathroom. She hadn't been all afternoon while sticking to him, afraid to give him that chance to lose her. She cracked open the bathroom door silently, straining her ears, and heard Rachel's voice and then House's answer from the living room. He was still occupied with the girls. With a relieved sigh, she shut the door and allowed herself time to pee. Her cell phone vibrated just as she finished washing her hands, and she picked it up. _Good job sticking with him this afternoon. Family is the best distraction. Will call at 7:00._

Feeling a little steadier for the support, she emerged and headed to the kitchen to start dinner.

House dutifully tried to play the any-old-night routine with the girls, but neither of them seemed to be completely buying it, both watching him skeptically. He even tried telling them he'd just had a bad day, following Jensen's advice, and they didn't seem to believe that either. The evening slowly passed in this rather-strained fashion, with the one interlude when Cuddy noticed House reaching for the salt and pepper shakers at the table and reached across to snatch them away from him. "You _promised,_ Greg!" she reminded him. "You're not going to ruin the food just to make yourself eat it anyway."

He sighed and sat back, picking up his fork, and Rachel chimed in, staring accusingly at Cuddy. "_Bad _Mama. Don't snatch!"

House chuckled, his expression relaxing more than it had yet at any point that afternoon. "She's got you there, Lisa. It's very bad manners to snatch something out of somebody's hand across the dinner table."

Cuddy sighed. "You're right, Rachel. That wasn't polite."

"Pologize!" Rachel demanded.

House's short laugh was worth the unmerited apology. "I apologize, Greg. That was very rude of me."

Right then, her cell phone vibrated against her body, and she pulled it out of her pocket. House arched an eyebrow. "You have it on vibrate?"

"We were going to a funeral, Greg," she reminded him. He definitely didn't need to hear how she and Jensen had been talking behind his back. She studied caller ID, then sighed. It was her mother. "Hello, Mother. What's up?" Cuddy had given Susan an update on the case and Monday's events just that morning; her mother wouldn't be calling again this soon without a specific reason.

"Hello, Lisa. I thought of something I forgot to ask you this morning. Is Thanksgiving still on after yesterday? If you all would rather not with everything else you're dealing with, I perfectly understand. We don't want to add to the stress on Greg."

"Is Thanksgiving still on," Cuddy repeated thoughtfully. She looked at her husband. "Actually, Mom, given everything else, it might be better if . . ."

House reached across the table and captured the cell phone. "Susan?"

"Oh, hello Greg. How . . . how are you doing?"

"Just fine. You were asking about Thanksgiving?" Cuddy, watching his expression, sighed. He was imagining two triggers in one, a holiday and a family gathering, being handed to him on a silver platter, and she saw no way to regain the phone short of a physical confrontation. His eyes followed her thought process and then shifted toward the two high chairs, reminding her of the presence of their children. She really couldn't tackle him to the floor in front of them without them realizing something was wrong.

Susan was continuing. "Yes, Robert and I just wondered . . . we could have a meal at our place, you know. Or just skip it. If you all don't want to do this right now, just say so; we'll understand."

"Actually," he replied, "we'd love to have you. And all the relatives, of course. The more the merrier. Can't let . . . other things interfere with everybody getting a proper introduction to Abby."

"If you're sure, Greg."

"Yes, I'm sure. Come on. We're looking forward to it."

"Okay, Greg. We'll be there tomorrow evening, and I'll help Lisa cook on Thursday. Most of my extended family who is coming will just arrive Thursday for the meal and a few hours with you two and the girls. Is that okay?"

"Perfect. We'll see you tomorrow. I need to go now; we were just having dinner."

"I won't keep you then. Goodbye, Greg."

"Bye, Susan." He hung up and then returned the phone ceremoniously to Cuddy with his "gotcha" look in his eyes. She sighed and accepted it before he could think of doing things like checking recent text messages.

"Dada!" Rachel scolded. "Pologize. You snatched, too."

Cuddy laughed. "Excellent point, Rachel. Greg, you _really_ shouldn't have done that."

"I apologize," he said meekly, but the determination was still in his face. Apologies or not, he had won this round, and even if Rachel didn't realize it, Cuddy did.

After dinner, he played the piano for a while, and then they took the girls together back to bed. House changed Abby and got her tucked in her crib. Cuddy was just getting settled in the rocking chair with Rachel, who was picking up on their tension and fighting sleep, when House looked around. "Oh, da. . . oh, no. Where's Mr. Bear?"

Rachel immediately looked for the gift bear he had given her. "Mr. Bear!" She always slept with it.

Cuddy sighed. "It was in the living room. We must have forgotten to pick it up." Small wonder, as distracted as they were.

"I'll find it," House offered. He kissed Abby, then Rachel, and then left the room.

Cuddy gave a sigh and continued rocking. Rachel reached up to touch her. "Mama?"

"What is it, Rachel?"

"Dada okay?"

She blinked back tears suddenly. "He . . . he had a hard day, Rachel. He will be okay; we'll help him. You don't have to worry." She continued rocking, the motion almost mesmerizing, and increasingly got lost in her thoughts as Rachel surrendered to drowsiness. Her thoughts found themselves in a hurry suddenly as she came to attention and listened intently. The house was silent. "Greg?" she called. Rachel, mostly asleep, shifted in her arms, and Cuddy dropped her voice. "Greg?" No answer.

She stood up stealthily, and Rachel didn't protest. Cuddy tucked her daughter in carefully, and Rachel turned, throwing out an arm on the edge of sleep. "Mr. Bear," she mumbled.

Cuddy hurried into the hallway. Mr. Bear was there, in the middle of the hall floor just short of the line of sight from the doorway. House had fulfilled his errand on his way to whatever else. Cuddy picked up the bear, tossing a few choice mental epithets toward its deliverer, and put it in bed with Rachel, tucking it under her arm. Rachel pulled the animal close, then immediately settled into sound sleep, and Cuddy turned to hurry out of the nursery.

She searched the house end-to-end quickly, finding not her husband but a note on the kitchen table. _Lisa, Forgot something this afternoon. Gone to get it. Be right back. _

Gritting her teeth in worry and anger, she pulled out her cell phone and called his. It promptly rang - from the other side of the living room, and she went over to retrieve it from the music rack on his piano. "Damn it, Greg," she hissed, trying to keep her voice down for the sake of the girls, but her worry was crashing over her in flood waves now.

His cell phone rang again at that moment. It was, of course, Jensen, and she answered with a sigh. "He's not here. I lost him. Damn it, I've spent _all afternoon_ trying to stay right with him, and he gives me the slip at our _own house_."

Jensen sounded concerned himself. "He didn't even take his cell phone with him?"

"_No_, he didn't take it. He obviously took it out deliberately and left it here; it wasn't at the piano a little while ago when he was playing. Wherever he is, he doesn't want me to reach him and argue."

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?" the psychiatrist asked.

"No. He did leave a note, just said he forgot something this afternoon, and he'll be right back. Bullshit. He didn't forget something; whatever he's gone to do, he thinks that would have been where I'd totally hit the limit this afternoon. So he's getting it alone instead." She could feel the tears welling up, could hear her voice rising. "What on earth could be even worse than this afternoon? I can't take this. _He_ can't take this. He's never going to even make it to the trial; he's almost at total meltdown just from one half day."

"Take a deep breath," Jensen advised. "He _will_ be right back; he wouldn't have said so otherwise. We can deal with whatever it is then. Could you give me a little bit more of an idea what happened today? It will help in talking to him."

Cuddy took a deep breath obediently. "I haven't had the complete version myself, just bits and pieces I've pulled out of him. He's been too agitated all afternoon to tell me everything. Basically the preliminary hearing is next week. They found pictures on the laptop, and the prosecutor thinks Patrick's only hope of defense is some kind of insanity plea." She actually heard Jensen growl under his breath, almost like an animal. The psychiatrist hated seeing the psychiatric defense misused just to escape prison. "Anyway, the prosecutor thinks that the women will be easier to twist up on the stand, since Patrick totally fooled them. That could be used by the defense to support multiple personality or some other story like that. But Greg saw through him. So Greg's the main witness against diminished responsibility. And that's when he panicked. He did come down to my office as he was starting his campaign, at least. But from that point on, he's been relentless, and nothing I said made any difference."

Jensen sighed. "I agree with the prosecutor, actually. Patrick's campaign against Dr. House has been completely rational and coherent throughout. That testimony will be invaluable to the case."

"He's not going to make next week, Dr. Jensen. I was just hoping he could make it through today so I could get him home." Cuddy paced an agitated circle. "And then I lost him _anyway_. From _home_."

"We'll deal with it," Jensen promised her. "We can help him with this."

Just then, she saw the headlights of her car in the driveway. "He's back. Thank God; I was afraid he'd have a wreck or something. He really shouldn't be driving as wound up as he is. Listen, don't tell him we've been talking this afternoon."

"Absolutely not," Jensen agreed. "He'd take that completely wrong. I was grateful for the heads-up, though; gave me a little more time to think through things and prepare."

The doorknob rattled and turned, and House entered. In his left hand, he was carrying two large bags of ice.

Cuddy stared. Then she snapped, all of the stress of this afternoon abruptly bursting out like a dam breaking. "Ice? You bought _ice_?" The phone fell from nerveless fingers as she started forward. "Are you _trying _to drive us all crazy? Don't you even _see_ what you're doing to yourself? To your family? Greg, you don't have to worry about that hearing, because there's no way you're going to make it that far on this _stupid,_ _bullheaded_, _INSANE_ campaign! You'll have all of us in Mayfield like Wilson's brother by then, me and the girls included. Patrick's already _won_ based off this afternoon, Greg, because you're going to run yourself into a breakdown long before next week. This whole strategy is the most AWFUL approach I've ever heard, and you have NO chance of accomplishing it. And it's not just yourself, Greg; your whole _family_ is going down right along with you. Forget next week; we're in hell RIGHT NOW!" Her voice had been rising steadily throughout, and it nearly shook the newly repaired windows by the end.

House stared at her speechlessly, then turned. Cuddy circled him quickly, physically barricading the front door with her body. "_Oh _no. You are _not _getting out of this house. You aren't doing this alone, you stubborn idiot. If you are bound and determined to kill all of us through stress, so be it, but we're going down _together_."

Rachel's voice and then Abby's were heard down the hall, the cries gaining volume. House stood stock still, his eyes wide, looking at Cuddy. She held the door firmly, fighting back the impulse to run to her daughters. She knew if he got out of the house right now, she'd never find him in time. A few moments later, Rachel appeared down the hall. Rachel could escape from her own bed, though Abby couldn't. "Mama!" House was standing with his back to the hall, and Rachel ran past him, running to Cuddy, the one she'd heard screaming. "Mama okay?" the little girl choked out through her own frightened sobs.

Cuddy bent to pick up Rachel, and House stared at his crying daughter, his eyes widening in horror. In the next moment, he turned and headed back down the hall, and she heard the slammed door of their bedroom. "Mama?" Rachel was still near hysterical, clinging to her. Abby's cries were gaining volume, too.

"It's okay, Rachel," Cuddy soothed. "I'm okay. I was just mad, all right? Nobody was hurting me. I apologize for waking you up." She turned to bolt the door and set the security system, trying to put at least a few barriers and delays in his way if he tried to run, then started for the nursery. She stopped abruptly as she spotted House's phone on the floor where she had dropped it. She snatched it up like a life preserver. "Are you still there?" she asked, speaking up to be heard over Rachel's gradually diminishing cries and Abby's more distant but far from diminishing ones.

"I'm here," Jensen replied. "He didn't get out of the house, did he?"

"No, he went back to the bedroom. I think he thinks he hurt the kids, though. I scared them. Rachel ran right past him to me, but she thought I was hurt. She heard me yelling . . . " She shook her head, the guilt kicking in, and hugged her sniffling daughter more tightly. "Damn it. I didn't mean all of that."

"Yes, you did," Jensen corrected. "Hopefully it did some good, too. You deal with the girls at the moment. Let me talk to him."

"I doubt he will right now," Cuddy stated dubiously.

"Worth a shot." Jensen himself thought it was pretty much a coin flip whether House, after that easily audible scene that had just played out, would simply hang up or would go off on the first available alternative target simply out of frustration. Still, if it took offering himself as a target to get a chance to talk him down, the psychiatrist was willing.

"Okay," Cuddy replied. She was truly at the end of her rope here. At least the girls would accept her comfort and assurances, and House did need the psychiatrist badly. She walked to the bedroom, calling into the nursery as she passed, "Just a minute, Abby. Mama will be right there." She didn't bother knocking at the closed bedroom door, knowing the futility of that, but simply opened it. House was standing across the room at the window, staring out, his whole body trembling. Cuddy crossed the room and shoved the phone at him. "Greg, _please_ talk to Jensen. Please. For me. Okay?" He didn't respond, and she pushed the phone into his hand, then touched his arm, giving it a light squeeze. "I'll be in the nursery with the girls."

With a feeling of dread, she exited the bedroom and carefully closed the door before going to her youngest daughter.


	74. Chapter 74

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. I love Obsessive!House. Reminds me of All In, one of my favorite episodes. I also do, as always, love Jensen.

Short update for today. Life's busy, weekend will be even busier. I'll let you off the cliff somewhat, though, just to be nice. :)

(H/C)

Jensen shot up a quick prayer, but he stayed silent. If House was teetering between hanging up (at a minimum) on the call and talking, pushing him would tip the scale, and not to the talking side. The psychiatrist simply waited for a decision, leaving it in House's hands, giving his patient that much control on a day where he had obviously felt completely out of control and swept along at flood pace by events. He knew House was there; he could hear him breathing. In fact, his breathing was easily audible and fast and jagged enough to worry Jensen. But he hadn't yet hung up, and pushing the off button or hurling the phone through another window wouldn't require much time. The longer the line stayed open, the more Jensen hoped that they would be able to have some interaction here.

House was in fact seesawing between a desire to hang up and a desire to lash out at anybody. But he could still hear Abby's cries, slowly diminishing now, through the closed door. His children. He had hurt his family. Cuddy's outburst had stabbed him deeply, as had Rachel running straight past him, seeking her mother for comfort instead of the loose cannon he apparently represented at the moment. He couldn't scare them anymore. Still, the chance to rip _somebody_ to shreds on this day was almost irresistible. But if he could hear Abby through the door, they would be able to hear him past a certain decibel point. He looked around, running a quick differential on the room, then grabbed all the pillows and the bedspread off the bed and opened the large closet. He entered, closing the door behind him, then methodically stuffed the bedspread all around the edges, shutting off the cracks of light, and added the pillows for reinforcement along the bottom. The total darkness closed in. He had never been afraid of the dark, though, even as a child. Darkness was undefined, and a life full of defined horrors had no space left for imaginary ones. He settled himself laboriously on the floor at the back of the closet, pushing his extended feet against the pillows at the bottom of the door, holding them firmly in place. The clothes hung down in his face, wonderful, sound-absorbing folds. Secure in the most soundproofed spot he could get, he picked up the phone and dove straight in.

"So, now she's called you in to save the day. Well, good luck with that, because you CAN'T. Nobody can save this day. All along, you've been telling me we had time, but it's a damn lie, because there ISN'T any time. I have to testify NEXT WEEK! And I've got to toughen myself up before then, but apparently I'm hurting my family now and scaring my kids to pieces, so NOW I get the wonderful choice of picking between justice for Patrick or being there for them, but WHAT THE HELL CHOICE was there? We can't TAKE time here. We can't go the long way. But I'm hurting THEM now. This is worse than just letting her drug me, because if this bastard walks, once he gets out of the loony bin, he'll go right back to more kids, and don't try to tell me he won't. You KNOW he will. He's never going to stop. But how can I pick between stopping him and keeping my family? And don't give me that lie that we have time, because we DON'T HAVE TIME. I have to do something RIGHT NOW to get ready for this hearing. RIGHT NOW!"

House stopped simply due to lack of oxygen. He was panting now, gulping in deep breaths, trying to get air. The darkness didn't bother him, but the laughter of John, right over his shoulder, did, and his throat was tightening up again.

"I agree," Jensen said quietly once the silence had expanded for a few seconds.

Nothing else he could have said would have piqued House's attention so quickly. House hesitated, distracted momentarily in mid rant. "What?"

"I agree. We haven't got time for the long way. We have to do something right now to prepare for that hearing, even if that's not the ideal treatment that I wish we'd had time for."

House gulped down a few more breaths of air. "You agree?"

"Yes. You came to the correct central conclusion. Unfortunately, you picked the wrong road from that point on, but that was a perfectly understandable mistake."

House's voice kicked back up again. "There only WAS one road from there."

"No, there's another method," Jensen stated confidently. "Another immediate method, I mean, and one that will work far better for you - and for your family."

Curiosity was fighting the panic now. "What's that?"

"First, take some Ativan. Your breathing isn't even. Physiologically, you need to calm down." Jensen took the first opportunity he'd had when he thought House would listen to make that suggestion. Now, with House's curiosity on the hook, he thought for the first time that he had a bit of maneuvering room.

"What's the other method?" House insisted.

"In a minute," Jensen responded, politely stubborn in his own way.

House shook his head. "Damn it, you're annoying at times."

"James was just telling me that the other day. Take the Ativan, and then we'll talk through this. There IS another way, Dr. House."

House rustled in his pockets, pulling out the pill bottles. Identifying the Ativan took him a bit longer in the darkness and with shaking hands, but his meds fortunately had different pill sizes and feels to them. He took one of the tablets, then returned the bottles to his pocket and picked back up the phone. "Okay, I took an Ativan. What's the other way?"

"There are two main methods to accomplish what you're trying to do, two 'shock' treatments, if you will, for rapid effect. The one you picked is desensitization, repeated exposure to the trigger in hopes of gradually decreasing the response. That actually can be effective in some cases. Unfortunately, the reason why that one is completely wrong for you is also the reason why you picked it without considering the possibility of other options. You said you needed to just get more used to things before next week."

Jensen hadn't used the actual relevant phrase to see if he could trip House into it, which would be more effective in making his point. House responded obligingly. "I've got to toughen myself up before that hearing."

"You've got to 'toughen yourself up.' That philosophy sounds strangely familiar."

House's eyes widened as John repeated it in the closet just to drive the point home. _You need to toughen yourself up, boy. That's all I'm doing. Some day, you'll thank me._

"Damn it," House said, and somehow the soft tone carried more emphasis than his yelling a few minutes ago. "I'm turning into my father."

"_No_," Jensen countered, "you definitely are _not_ turning into your father. You are _channeling_ your father's philosophies, which makes a lot of sense, because you did have years and years of having them drilled into you. Under extreme stress, it's perfectly understandable that that is your first impulse. You're making a lot of progress, Dr. House, but a crisis like the one you are currently in would rock _anybody_. But this is why desensitization is a completely wrong choice for you. It carries far too much emotional baggage along with it. All you will do is remind yourself of the past, not learn to stop responding to it. Using _that_ method, you never will make it to next week, nor will your family. Dr. Cuddy was right in what she yelled at you."

House sighed. "I guess she told you about that."

"Actually, I heard it myself. I had called to talk to you, and you left your cell phone at home when you went out. She answered."

House recalled for the first time that Cuddy had had the phone in her hand when he first came in. "So you heard all that. Now you know how totally I screwed up everything with my family."

"Dr. House, one bad afternoon does not equate to permanent trauma. You haven't hurt your family; you just worried them."

"I scared the kids," House insisted. "Rachel ran right by me. She didn't even want to look at me."

"Rachel heard her mother screaming. She didn't hear you. Of _course_ she ran to her; she wanted to make sure she was all right. Your family isn't frightened of you, Dr. House; they're just concerned. Yes, they were stressed. But nothing this afternoon is irrevocable. Cut yourself some slack."

House shook his head again. "Honestly, I didn't even think of how much it was affecting them. Not until Lisa blew up. But I've _got_ to get ready for that hearing. The prosecutor thinks Patrick is going to claim multiple personalities or some crap. They _need_ my testimony. He said so."

"I agree," Jensen said. "We can't let Patrick get away with that. But, like I told you, there _is_ another way if you'll just listen for a few minutes."

House straightened up slightly on the floor. "Tell me more."


	75. Chapter 75

A/N: Computer system out at the moment during this weekend of badly-needed overtime. Grrrr. Not that I don't love writing, but my employers don't pay me for that. Anyway, enjoy. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

"The other way to rapidly help someone deal with a trigger is reconditioning to replace the association," Jensen explained. "For instance, you've already got a good one started with being outside in the cold. Now, in addition to all the nights that you had to stay outside, you also can counter that by letting cold remind you of building a snowman with Rachel. You need to find a positive thing, one to go with each trigger, and _practice_ them over the next several days. We haven't got time to go slowly, as you said. Practice them like Cathy practicing the piano, every day, in fact multiple times a day, with breaks, too, of course, but take your own advice and don't simply make it elements of an exercise. Pay attention to the specific notes, but also realize they form the overall picture, the total song that you are _happy_ now, you have a family, and your present is going well, Patrick aside. Your family is going to be a very good ally for you in this. But it must be a very _specific_ association to match each trigger, as specific as the memories tied to them now. Specific, strong memories with emotional significance to balance the specific triggers. Don't only think of family in general; think of family doing whatever, like Rachel and the snowman, and then run through that regularly. Being out in the cold equals building a snowman with Rachel. Keep repeating it. _Rehearse _it; go build another one. Look at pictures of yourself doing it. Tie the trigger to a new image."

House took a deep breath and let it out slowly. That actually made sense. There was _something_ that made sense, something else that had a chance. The desperation of this afternoon dissipated, the horrible feeling of being trapped with only one possible answer and that one terrifying him because he _knew_ he wasn't equal to it and knew also that he _had_ to somehow become so in order to bring Patrick to justice.

"Do you understand?" Jensen asked, although he already knew from that audible exhalation. But House badly needed to participate in this discussion, to have some control over events rather than feeling stuck on a raging river as it approached a waterfall as he had felt all day.

"Yes," House replied. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, feeling the friendly darkness push in. "That sounds like it might work."

"It _will_ work, and for you, it will work much better than desensitization. Desensitization is used, you know, in medicine; Cathy is on allergy shots, for instance. But you haven't got a simple allergy that your body has an impersonal chemical response to; you have horrible events tied to those triggers. You can't approach it like treating an allergy or even like overcoming a phobia, which is an irrational fear. Your responses are very rational given your background, and there is nothing about your father's campaign that was ever impersonal. So it's not like a medical allergy. And really, you know, even with Cathy, she doesn't get an allergy shot every 2 minutes for a week straight just to build her system up so she can take it longer. If we tried that, she'd go into shock. Even when desensitization is useful, you can't hit it like a freight train and never let up. You'll just have a wreck that way."

House sighed. "I . . . know. I _knew_ it wouldn't work. But I didn't think I had a choice."

"Almost always, you have _some_ kind of a choice, even if not the one you wished you did. You could have called me this afternoon when you found out about the hearing to talk about strategy."

"I know, I blew that, too." A thread of irritation crept back into his voice. "But you were in an appointment. I didn't want to bother you."

"You wanted to do something on your own," Jensen corrected.

"Okay, damn it, I wanted to do something on my own. I wanted to get through at least _one_ day without needing my psychiatrist."

"That's echoes of your father again influencing you. Some day, we'll have to total up the number of days in the last year and a half that you haven't had any contact with me; that number is far more than the ones where you have. But you are in a _crisis_ right now, Dr. House. This isn't the time to decide to deal with it all yourself. Take a patient, for instance. Not an exact example here, but you'll get the point. Suppose a doctor is in a surgery with other doctors also present and watching, only it is his specialty, not theirs. The patient begins to crash. There is a crisis occurring in the operating room. Is _that_ the best time for another doctor to snatch the instruments away from the lead surgeon and decide to see if he can deal with something himself?"

"No," House replied meekly. "You're right; it was stupid."

"Stop using that word," Jensen insisted. "It wasn't stupid; it was just a mistake, and like I said, your whole life has conditioned you one way, and you are still overcoming that. You aren't yet totally used to having people you can count on and a support system. In a crisis, your first impulse is still that you _must_ deal with this yourself. But even there, you have made one move today that was the best possible thing you could have done, and that was going to Dr. Cuddy to ask her to accompany you."

"She's told you about today, I guess," House stated.

"In brief, yes." Jensen didn't specify when. House couldn't help knowing about the phone call, since Cuddy had been on the phone when he came in, but the earlier, behind-the-back texts were hers to reveal at an appropriate moment if she chose - and this, although it was improving, was not yet an appropriate moment. "From the beginning, even while caught up in your lifelong pattern and fighting your father's influence, you did go to her for help. That was a very wise decision, and the fact that you made it _does_ show your progress. Even in a crisis, you are not where you once were. But please, Dr. House, next time before you decide on an urgent psychiatric strategy for something, _call me_. This is my specialty. Not yours."

"Okay." House felt the hard wall behind him, holding him up. The darkness was starting to make him feel sleepy. "So about replacing the triggers, what do I replace them with?"

"That's your choice," Jensen replied. "It _has_ to be your choice. You can pick out far better ones than anyone else can for you. Simply make it something purely positive and also something specific that you can recreate easily to practice. Dr. Cuddy and the girls can help you practice them, I'm sure, and the girls won't even realize what they're doing, since they'll only have half the picture. Pick out a new association for each trigger and practice those. One other thing, you don't have to hit absolutely _everything._ Only work on the ones in your mother's therapy notes, the ones that the other side has. Regardless of his beliefs, Patrick still has a whole lot he doesn't know about you. No need to drag more into it right now in the next week than we have to. It would really be useful if I could read those notes, by the way. It would help me work with you."

"I'll bring my copy when I come to Middletown tomorrow afternoon."

"You do have a lot of positive things to pick from now, Dr. House. That's yet more proof how much your life has changed and how wrong your father was. You are successful in relationships, even though he predicted you wouldn't be. But focus on the positive for its own sake, too. You know, a positive is almost always stronger than a negative. Take somebody trying to stop smoking, for instance. One of the hardest things is to develop _new_ habits, but hard as it is, it's far harder to quit if a person simply sits around reciting, 'I will NOT smoke a cigarette,' to himself 24 hours a day. That much focus just reminds the mind more strongly of what it's trying to move past. Getting into new habits to help break an old works better."

House grinned in the dark and slid slightly further down the wall. "In other words, spending a full week telling myself, 'I will not freak out,' isn't likely to assist with not freaking out."

"A-plus," Jensen stated. "You have a great family now, Dr. House. You have a support system. _Use it_."

"You really think I can be ready by next week for that hearing?"

"Yes, I do. Using different strategies. By practicing regularly with new associations for the triggers - and regularly does _not_ mean 24/7 - I think you can pull their teeth a good bit by then. It will still be unpleasant, of course, but you can get the victory over Patrick just like you are getting it over your father."

"Good," House replied.

Jensen's attention sharpened up instantly. "Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"Wrong answer. Try again. Your voice doesn't sound quite right the last few statements."

House sighed. "I'm just tired, I think. Getting sleepy."

"Small wonder. Just from my abbreviated summary, it sounds like you have had a hell of a day."

"It was one," House agreed. "I'll tell you more about it tomorrow afternoon. I'll bring the notes, too."

"Thursday and Friday are Thanksgiving, of course, and we'll both have family around, but I will be back in the office on Saturday. It would probably be a good idea to have another session this weekend, and we can work more specifically on preparation for the trial. I can play defense attorney. That's not a strategy we want to implement tomorrow, I think, but by the weekend, some benevolent cross-examination might help us out."

"That will work. I'm seeing the prosecutor tomorrow morning, too."

"Stay with the positive, Dr. House. Go over your evidence, but if he wants to practice cross-examination, tomorrow is not the time to try it. Give yourself a few days first. And _please_ take Dr. Cuddy with you."

"I will. Doubt I could leave her behind." House shook his head.

"What is it?" Jensen demanded.

"Nothing. . . I mean . . . I'm actually feeling a little bit lightheaded now," House admitted.

"I think you've pushed yourself to the absolute limits today. You need to quit. Just lie down, okay?"

House opened his eyes, looking toward the door in the dark. "That requires getting up off the floor first."

"You're in the _floor_?"

"In the closet, actually. I wanted to yell at you, but I didn't want to scare them anymore." He sighed again. "I can't lie down yet. I need to talk to Lisa tonight."

Jensen smiled at the mental picture, so in character, of House methodically and logically looking for the best soundproofed place to retreat before blowing up at someone. "Actually, Dr. House, I'd strongly recommend putting off thorough conversation until tomorrow. Your body is giving out tonight, perfectly understandably. Besides, you two aren't as far apart as you think you are. She was just concerned. She'll accept a short version tonight; just knowing there's another way is all she needs."

"I need to talk to her," House insisted.

"That also requires getting up off the floor," Jensen pointed out. House's words were actually starting to run together slightly, and Jensen thought he was one short step from physical collapse now that the adrenaline of panic had been removed. He didn't think extended conversation with Cuddy tonight was even going to be a possibility. The more immediate concern was that House didn't need to sleep in the closet.

House shifted over and laboriously heaved himself to his feet, then caught himself on the side of the closet as a wave of dizziness washed over him. "Whoa."

"Go to the bed and lie down," Jensen commanded. "I'll call Dr. Cuddy and tell her to come into the bedroom, okay? That way, you won't have to walk through the house to find her."

House blinked. "You will call her?" he asked. "Right now?" He pulled aside the bedspread and pillows and opened the closet door.

"Just as soon as we hang up," Jensen promised, absolutely sincerely.

House hobbled across the room the few feet to the bed and fell onto it, phone still in hand. "Okay, I'm lying down on the bed. Call her."

"I will, Dr. House. See you tomorrow." The line went dead.

House hit end and lay there, listening to the new song coursing through his veins to replace the urgent panic of this afternoon. There was another way.

(H/C)

It had taken Cuddy quite a while to get the girls soothed again and convinced that she was okay. Both of them had heard her rampage loud and clear. She imagined that the neighbors for a few each side had heard it, or at least surely would have if it had been summer with the windows open. The girls were finally sound asleep again, both in her lap as she rocked gently. She knew there were things she could be doing - for one thing, there were two large bags of ice melting in their living room floor. But she stayed in the rocking chair, holding her daughters, drawing comfort from them now just as she had given it a while ago.

She kept her ears cocked toward the bedroom, but the house was absolutely silent. Odd. The bedroom door was shut, but she knew House had been teetering on the edge of explosion. Still, she heard not a peep. His total explosions always had been more controlled than hers, but even so . . . Worry gnawed at her. He couldn't possibly have slipped past her down the hall, and his leg wouldn't let him climb out the window. Besides, Jensen would have called her if communication totally failed or if he had left the house. She had taken her cell phone off vibrate just so she couldn't fail to notice it. But both her phone and the bedroom remained soundless.

Her body was starting to grow numb from holding both of the girls in her lap when the phone finally rang. She quickly freed a hand and fished it out. Jensen. "Is he okay?" she demanded, not even bothering with a greeting.

"I think so," the psychiatrist replied, "but you need to go check on him. Physically, I mean. He was fading badly on me there at the end. I think his day is just catching up with him, but you ought to make sure."

Cuddy gathered her feet under her, preparing for action. "I've got to put the girls back to bed, then I'll be right there."

"Would you call me back and let me know he's okay?" Jensen asked.

"Sure. Goodbye." She hit end, then pocketed her phone. Slowly, she stood, trying not to jostle her daughters, but neither of them stirred. They were deeply asleep now, emotionally worn out themselves by this point. She tucked them in quickly, then hurried toward the bedroom.

House was on the bed, sprawled across more on her side than his own, eyes closed. The bed was without bedspread or pillows, but he seemed to be totally out on it anyway. She went to him quickly, checking his pulse - strong and even, probably slower than it had been at any point during this wild afternoon. He was apparently just naturally asleep. She extracted his phone from his grip and put it aside. Just to make sure she _could_ rouse him, although she didn't really want to, she shook him gently. "Greg?" He stirred, eyelids halfway opening, then falling back as if made of lead.

"Need to talk," he mumbled.

Cuddy smiled. "We don't need to talk tonight. Where are the pillows?"

"Closet," he replied, the word trailing off.

"In the closet?" She turned around, noticing for the first time the open closet door and the bedding spilling out. Her worried focus had been solely on him as she entered; she hadn't even looked toward the closet. "Why on earth . . .never mind." He wasn't answering her anyway. She retrieved the pillows, then slowly worked him onto his side of the bed and undressed him. He wasn't even responding anymore, completely under now. She tucked him in, added the bedspread back on top, then retrieved the sleeping pill. He definitely needed a sound night's rest tonight, free of nightmares later once the initial exhaustion was past. The rest of his meds could wait, but that one couldn't. She shook him again firmly, then shoved the pill into his mouth when he finally halfway reacted, the eyelids fighting unsuccessfully to open. "Take the sleeping pill, Greg. We'll talk tomorrow; it's okay." He swallowed the pill, and she lowered his head back to the pillow, then kissed him. His eyes had never made it all the way open that time. "Sleep, my love."

With him set for the night, she went back for another look at the girls, then returned to the bedroom, switched on the monitor, undressed herself, and climbed in. A glance at the clock told her it was only 8:40. How on earth could it only be 8:40? Today had lasted eons. She settled into bed beside her husband, then called Jensen back. The psychiatrist answered on the first ring.

"He's okay," she assured him. "He's just completely worn out. Honestly, I was afraid he'd collapse at some point during the afternoon. There aren't words strong enough. That was awful, watching him put himself through all that."

"I'm sure it was," Jensen replied. "You did a good job being there for him, though."

She felt her eyes welling up with remembered fear. "I felt so absolutely helpless. Is he . . ."

"We have a new strategy," Jensen stated.

She gave a sigh of relief. "Thank God. There's no way he would have lasted a week like this, or me either. What's the new strategy?"

"I'll let him tell you. He needs to, anyway. He'll need a good bit of your help with it, I'm sure."

She relaxed. "I'll be glad to help, if he'll just let me."

"I think he will. And remember, even this afternoon, he _did_ come to you. I'll let you go now. I'm sure you're worn out yourself."

"I am. Today's lasted forever."

"But it's over now," Jensen assured her. "Good night, Dr. Cuddy."

"Good night. And _thank you_. I know it's not nearly enough, but thank you. You're a lifesaver."

She could hear the smile in his voice. "You're welcome. He's a delight to work with, actually. Circumstances aside; I wouldn't have chosen this, of course. But he gives me a lot more return on time invested than he thinks. There is nothing as fulfilling for a doctor than seeing a patient get better. And he _is _getting better."

"Yes." Cuddy stroked her husband's hair. "He is." She yawned suddenly, unable to keep it back. "Good night," she repeated.

"Good night." Jensen hung up. Cuddy put her phone on the nightstand, then switched off the lamp and closed her eyes, snuggling down against her husband, finally letting herself let go completely, exhaling the tension. They had a new strategy. She was too tired to even wonder much right now what the new strategy was; just the assurance of its existence was enough to send her off into rest. Today was over.


	76. Chapter 76

Jensen hung up from the call with Cuddy and then sat back in his desk chair in his study, letting out a deep breath. He felt put through the wringer himself by the last few hours, trying to calm Cuddy and then carefully trying to talk House down. Thank God for Cuddy's heads-up earlier, giving him time to think on strategies, and also for over a year and a half now solid of a good therapeutic relationship, letting him know the best ways to approach this intricate patient and also letting House feel comfortable and trusting with him at this point. Earlier in their sessions, tonight never would have been possible. There had been no breathing space to maneuver and still learn each other.

It still wasn't ideal, of course. Jensen did think that reconditioning would help a lot, but House still was in for a tough time at the hearing, and the psychiatrist wished desperately that they had had more time. Also, his original plans for tonight's conversation with House, plans made before Cuddy's frantic text, had been lost entirely along the way. Jensen had intended to gently prepare him for the idea of the media exposure that would explode as soon as formal abuse charges were filed. He hadn't realized there would be a preliminary hearing so soon, but Jensen _did_ know that charges must be filed within 48 hours of arrest, and with Patrick having been picked up early Monday morning, they were running the clock down on that deadline. It was almost certain that charges would be filed at some point tonight, that the media, patrolling constantly for a good story, would jump on it with both feet, and that House would encounter them _before_ his session with Jensen tomorrow afternoon.

But there had been no opportunity to bring that up tonight. The internal panic had to be dealt with and resolved before any new external factors were introduced, and House couldn't have taken anything more by the end of their conversation.

Underlying everything was the anger, red-hot coals deep within him. Anger at Patrick for his interference in House's therapy, for what they were no doubt planning at the trial, trying to get revenge on House by pushing him to a public breakdown, and for the possibility that Patrick might misuse psychiatry to try to dodge his own responsibilities. To have someone claim insanity as a cop-out was an affront to all those for whom it was a sad fact. Then there was anger for all of those children, for just how many lives Patrick had torn up on his mad course. At least he had been a fast worker, breaking one child and then promptly moving on. That wasn't excusing his actions at all, but it gave a better prognosis for his victims. While either was heinous, a few months of abuse was at least normally easier to overcome in therapy than years and years.

Like House had had. Jensen was still amazed that House had survived his childhood at all. Now House was the one standing between true justice for Patrick and a dodge-out into the mental health system leading to eventual release and a chance to continue his monstrous campaign.

Anger.

Jensen took steady, controlled breaths, reminding himself of the words that had been part of what made a difference for him long ago. _If you only react to a situation instead of responding, you have already given that situation the victory over you._ He had to acknowledge the coals but keep control of them, keep them from bursting out into open flames, let them slowly fade instead. He couldn't afford to have his own thinking process impacted here. To stop thinking clearly almost never improved any strategy.

He unbuttoned his shirt cuff on his right arm and rolled it up, revealing the scar across his mid forearm, tracing it gently with his left hand. For him, that scar was another visible reminder of the power of anger. The injury to his arm hadn't been intentional, of course; Mark was just playing. Careless playing, and his twin brother had been appalled at the consequences of his actions, but it certainly hadn't been meant. Still, Jensen had taken the pain from that injury and translated it into anger instead, into resentment at Mark. He had needed somebody to blame for the agony of the initial injury and the multiple skin grafts. It had been over a year before he had been fully released from medical care and they called it healed. He had lied to Mark within the first week just to shut up the waterfall of apology that grated on his nerves while he was still in so much pain that it took everything he had not to scream. He had told his brother he accepted his apology.

It had been a lie. And the anger had festered like a deep abscess in him, poisoning their relationship for quite a while until it was finally admitted and dealt with three years later.

Mark was his best friend and had been through most of his life, that period aside. They were extremely close, like many identical twins, and it was Mark who had been his own rock of support during the period after his divorce. But Jensen used that scar sometimes to remind himself how ugly anger was and how much damage it could do, damage to himself, not to the object of it. He could have forfeited his friendship with his brother over something as temporary as pain, and accidental pain at that. No matter how severe, physical pain was not larger than a true friendship. So much more benefit to moving on.

Not that Patrick would ever ask for forgiveness or deserve it, but the reminder was the same. Anger is ugly and can distort thought, and it hurts yourself even more than others. He had to remain clear headed. He took a few more deep breaths, thinking forward, thinking through strategies, not dwelling on Patrick's actions which were already done and couldn't be altered by his fury. The coals faded somewhat. Feeling steadier, Jensen was just pushing back from his desk to rise when his cell phone rang again. He snatched it up, his first thought that something really was wrong with House physically after all. It wasn't Cuddy, however. It was Wilson.

Jensen sighed and honestly debated letting it go to voice mail. He was exhausted. Still, his conscience smote him. He had told Wilson he could call, and he couldn't be sure that there wasn't any new, urgent crisis going on with Wilson rather than the one he knew about. He answered.

Wilson's voice was low, almost a stage whisper. "Okay, I talked to her. She said she needs time to think, and Cuddy told me to just stay on the couch and wait her out, but what do I _do_ here?"

Jensen tossed a mental salute to Cuddy. "Stay on the couch and wait it out. Dr. Cuddy was correct. Sandra needs to know if you're willing to stay and work on things."

"But _how long_? It's been over 24 hours, and she's still barely talking to me. This is torture."

Jensen had a silent grin for that. "James, 24 hours isn't a very long time at all. You _betrayed_ her trust. If she came back within 24 hours and made a decision on that, I'd question _her_ sincerity and think she hadn't really admitted the magnitude of her feelings. Just be there for her and wait. Don't push her."

Wilson sighed. "There's no quicker way?"

"Only one," Jensen responded. "You can move out. That will immediately tell her you don't want to work at this, she'll stop thinking about whether she'll give you a second chance, and it will be over. If that's not the quick answer you want, then no, there's no alternative to just giving her time to think but showing her you're still there. Only leave if she directly tells you to." He sighed, feeling a wave of weariness wash over him. "Listen, can we talk about things further tomorrow? I've had a very long day today, and I think I'm too tired to do this properly."

Wilson sounded like a petulant child. "Talking to House, I'll bet. His crisis is bigger than mine, of course."

"Yes, right now, it is," Jensen replied, a touch of steel in his voice. "If you don't know what all has happened today, which is a lot, ask them tomorrow."

Wilson's annoyance disappeared, replaced by curious concern. "More stuff has happened today? I went to lunch with him; he was fine then. What's going on?"

"Ask them tomorrow. You can call me tomorrow if you need to on my lunch hour, but right now, I don't think I've got enough energy left to do you justice. Besides, I take it from your quietness that Sandra is around?"

"She's back in the bedroom," Wilson confirmed.

"If she came out and found you whispering on the phone, that would definitely not go over well. Talk to me openly and let her know that's what you're doing, but don't try to hide it. Any indication right now that you are hiding something from her will be taken wrong."

Wilson sighed. "All right. I'll call you tomorrow. Is House okay?"

"He will be, I think."

"Okay, I'll ask them tomorrow what happened. But damn it, this is frustrating, just sitting on the couch with nothing to do but think."

"Then spend the time thinking," Jensen suggested.

Silence for a moment. Wilson didn't like that answer. "Good night, Jensen."

"Good night, James."

Jensen hit end and then rubbed his hand over his eyes. He really did feel put through the mill today. He could only imagine how House felt after the extended panic of this afternoon. Wishing him and Cuddy sound sleep, Jensen stood up and exited the study.

Cathy and Melissa were in the living room, Cathy fingering through fragments of this and that on the piano, Melissa sitting with the TV on but her gaze fixed on the wall instead. Both of them looked up as he entered the room, and Cathy bounded off the piano bench. "I know it's bedtime, but Mom said I could wait to say good night to you. Are you okay? That phone call took over _two hours_."

"I'm fine, just tired," Jensen assured her. "That was a tough one. It turned out okay, though." For the moment. Cathy gave him a hug, and he squeezed her tightly. "I'm sorry I wasn't around more of tonight."

"That's okay. I'm not stupid, you know," Cathy assured him with the infinite wisdom of 8. "I know _something _big is going on. But you haven't always got something going on, so I'll forgive you when you do."

Jensen smiled. "Thank you, Cathy. You're right." He gave her another squeeze, then let her go. "You're also right that it's bedtime. School tomorrow, but tomorrow night, you can stay up late and enjoy talking to the family."

"Except Brian," she insisted. "Do I have to talk to him?"

"Yes, at least a little." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "But you can also avoid him when he gets on your nerves, too. Plenty of other family here. If he follows you, they won't let him tease you too much. Last resort, go to the women and ask to help with something. They'll appreciate the help, and he'll vanish instead of being put to work."

Cathy grinned. "Good night, Dad."

"Good night, Cathy."

She charged out of the room toward her bedroom, and Jensen turned to face Melissa. "I'm sorry."

She was studying him. "Come here, Michael." She moved over to the loveseat, room for both of them, and he joined her. "Are you all right? You look totally worn out." She had also noticed that his right cuff was unbuttoned, hanging loosely around his wrist. He had been fingering his scar. She knew the significance that had for him.

"I am worn out. That was, like I said, a tough call. But it worked out okay in the end. We've got Thanksgiving coming up, and I'm off those two days, so the family will get all of me then."

She slid her arm around him. "I've been thinking, Michael." She felt him tense up and hurried on. "_Not _what you're imagining, either. I've been thinking that I really haven't been fair to you."

That certainly _wasn't _what he was imagining, and he looked at her in surprise. "What?"

"We both know that you spent too much time and focus on work in the past, and I was pretty quick to get annoyed, too. I could have been more flexible and understanding. I never thought of them as people. Yes, you overdid it, but I wasn't supportive even when I should have been."

"We've agreed we both made mistakes," he reminded her. "I really _am _trying to fix those."

"I know you are. It's _okay_, Michael. You are doing so much better trying to balance things, and Cathy and I can both see it. But what I was thinking, _I_ need to work on things more, too. I wasn't supportive then. I'd like to be now."

"You are, you and Cathy. Coming home or even coming out of the study after a call like that one and finding you two here waiting for me is like a breath of fresh air."

"But you try to keep absolutely airtight compartments between your work and family. Oh, you'll say you've had a bad day or what not, but you try as hard as you can to never share anything from your job."

"Confidentiality . . ." he started, and she cut him off.

"I _know_ about confidentiality. I know you can't go into exact and complete details. But I also think that part of you is _afraid_ to say anything to me about work, even what you could say. Is that a fair statement?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "I don't want to lose you two again. I'd rather lose the job first, if it came to that."

"I know. But you don't have to be afraid to tell me _anything_. You don't have to keep it so completely sealed away because you're worried I'll get mad. Other wives of doctors or lawyers don't expect the job to totally disappear at the doorway. You can tell me . . . whatever you can, confidentiality wise. But let the only limit be confidentiality. Don't let it be fear. I _know_ I got so annoyed with your job before, but Michael, give me as much chance to change as you are trying to change yourself. I'd like to be there for you. I'd like to avoid repeating my _own_ mistakes. And sometimes you need somebody to talk to yourself. Just like your patients do. You can talk to me."

He leaned over, answering her in actions and not words, and their kiss deepened. "Thank you," he said once they broke apart, and he felt his own internal knot of fear that he would lose his family again loosen.

"So what was that call about?" she asked. "As much as you want to tell me."

He considered. "There's going to be a preliminary hearing next week with Patrick, and the prosecutor thinks there's a chance he's going to claim insanity - totally incorrectly, of course; he just wants to dodge prison. Prison isn't kind to child abusers. But House is going to have to testify, as well as face cross-examination; he's the only one who wasn't fooled by Patrick, so he's the best testimony to how rational and conniving Patrick is. What I was working on tonight, and tomorrow when I see him, too, was trying to help prepare him for the pre-trial. I'll see him on Saturday, too, for another practice trial session. But Thursday and Friday, I _will_ be off for the family."

She studied him. "If he has to, he can call you those two days. You can tell him that." She felt him tense up slightly. "_Only_ him. Only if he really has to. But telling me what you're up against makes a difference. I don't want to see Patrick get off any more than you do. All those poor kids! You've got to have him ready."

Jensen measured her sincerity for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you. I was worried about those two days; I have coverage, of course, but House is a special case. You have to know how to handle him, and he trusts me by now. But I'll tell him only if it's urgent. He'll respect that."

Melissa nodded. "And all the rest of your patients, if they need you, they can talk to your colleague. You really do need a few days off, Michael."

"I know I do. Thank you for understanding." He kissed her again.

It was the TV that separated them that time as the 10:00 local news came on. "And our lead story tonight, breaking news out of Princeton. A man has been charged with multiple counts of child abuse in a campaign that authorities say extended across at least four states, including New York. Patrick Chander will be tried first in New Jersey but then will most likely also face charges in New York, Michigan, and possibly Missouri for stalking single mothers, abusing their 3-4 year old children physically as well as sexually, and then moving on to his next victim. This reign of terror apparently came to a screeching halt when a doctor in Princeton became the first to ever suspect him and contacted CPS. Chandler was arrested yesterday morning in Princeton, and charges were filed in New Jersey this evening. Authorities confirm that there is an open investigation in New York. More updates as we get them on this breaking news."

Jensen and Melissa looked at each other. He closed his eyes, and she pulled him into another embrace. The rest of the news passed by unheard as they simply held each other.


	77. Chapter 77

Cuddy woke up 5 minutes before her alarm. It had been a refreshingly quiet and restful night, the girls needing some attention once, but House had barely moved. She turned now to check on him again even before reaching to switch the clock off, and she was surprised to see that his eyes were open, glinting in the street light that peeked through the curtain gap from outside. He was staring at the ceiling, deep in thought, wearing his differential expression. At least he did seem to be thinking now, chasing out some analysis, not just lost in the terrified panic of yesterday. Score one, yet again, for Jensen. She switched off the clock and turned on the bedside lamp. He didn't even react.

"Greg?" She ran one hand up and down his arm, and he jumped slightly. "Didn't mean to startle you. What are you thinking about?"

He jumped tracks instead to another subject; she saw the shift of gears in his eyes. "I'm . . ." He felt her hand tighten slightly on his arm in warning and modified his statement. "I apologize for being such a jerk yesterday. I didn't realize how much it was affecting you, too."

"You weren't being a jerk, Greg. You were just scared about breaking down at the hearing." She leaned over to kiss him, trying to reassure him.

He pulled away. "You said the whole family was in hell right now. Because _I _put you there."

"Greg, I didn't mean . . . I was mad, okay? I blow up when I really get mad. I was just worried about you; that was all. But I also said, remember, that we were still going through things with you no matter what."

He shivered slightly, remembering hell, full of fog, stairs, ice - and John. "I . . . I've been to hell. I don't ever want to . . ."

Cuddy wished she could retract that phrase and pick a different one. "Greg, it _wasn't_ like that. It wasn't like things with you and your father. Not even remotely close. I didn't mean it that way."

He twisted to look at her. "Are the girls okay?"

"They're fine. _I _scared them, blowing my top like that. That's why Rachel ran straight to me. They went right back to sleep once I rocked them for a while. You didn't scare them, Greg." He was still looking thoughtful, and she closed the distance again, trying for another kiss. He didn't try to retreat that time, and slowly, she felt him start to respond, moving in more closely, then abruptly tightening up, his breath catching.

She let go instantly. "Your leg?"

He leaned back into the pillows, panting slightly. "Cramping up . . . a little bit." He knew better than to try to move much before he had gradually worked the nighttime kinks out of it. But he'd forgotten.

Cuddy slid out of bed, and his eyes couldn't help following her unclothed form appreciatively as she rounded the bed to his side. She pulled the covers back and started massaging the thigh, gently coaxing the spasm out. "You missed your nighttime dose of meds last night. There's a good reason it would be bothering you more this morning."

He closed his eyes, relaxing into her magic touch, the waves of pain starting to slowly diminish. "That's right; I forgot them." He suddenly looked hopeful. "Even the sleeping pill." Had he managed the whole night without a single nightmare even in the current crisis?

She hated to remove that expression, but he deserved the truth. "Well, no, I did give you the sleeping pill. Only that one. You don't remember that?"

He sighed. "No. Should have known, though."

"We'll get the dose back down, Greg. You were doing really well before all this blew up. But waiting for that hearing isn't the time to try to cut it back." She never stopped working on his half-muscle. "I did think about the pain meds, but you were pretty far out of it anyway. The Vicodin is bigger to swallow. I got you to take the one pill, but I didn't want to push my luck."

"Did Jensen call you? He said he would and tell you to come into the bedroom so we could talk, but I don't remember . . . guess I fell asleep."

"Yes, he called me. It's okay, Greg. You were trying to talk things out, even asleep, but you needed the rest more. You really pushed yourself too hard yesterday."

"I know." His eyes opened again. "I didn't mean to drag you through all that."

"Quit it. The _best_ thing out of yesterday was that you trusted me enough to let me go with you. I hate to think of you trying that alone." He was still looking thoughtful, and she changed the subject. "Jensen said you had a new strategy, but he wouldn't tell me what it was."

"Right. That's what I was thinking through when I woke up. I need to come up with something to make a new _positive _association for each trigger - well, for the ones in those notes, anyway. The ones they'd be using. Like being out in the cold, I need to replace those nights with building a snowman with Rachel. Get a new good thing and practice it."

She smiled. "That sounds like a good strategy. I can help you if you want."

He nodded vigorously. "You and the girls are by far the best positive thing I've got. I'm sure you'll be involved in it. So out of the therapy notes, we've got 'I'm sorry,' being shut outside, ice . . ."

"Oh, hell!" Her hands tightened up slightly on his leg, and he flinched. She immediately relaxed her fingers. "I forgot to move the ice. I guess it melted overnight in the living room floor."

"You mean it's still where I dropped . . ." His question trailed off as the familiar blue lightning struck in his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked, the soggy living room forgotten. How she loved to watch his mind at work!

"Ice . . . melting. Even in the living room floor, it melts." He grinned at her. "What would happen if we poured a small bag of ice into the hot tub?"

"With the hot tub filled up already, you mean? It would melt very quickly." She came to the same conclusion he had reached, even if a bit delayed. "You think you need to practice being in the hot tub and watching ice vanish?"

"With you," he modified. "All that _steam_. Hot tub instead of ice baths. The ice wouldn't stand a chance. Jensen said I needed to pick something repeatable and then practice it."

"Great! Okay, we've already got two triggers with new ties to work on hammering in. What else was in those notes? Rope, carpet glue."

He flinched. "That's going to be a tough one."

"Yes. We'll think of something, Greg." The leg had stopped spasming by now, but she left her hands on it, just warming him, emphasizing the contact. "You know, those notes really left out a lot of specifics, because they're your _mother's_ notes, not yours. A lot of your details aren't written there, just the ones the psychiatrist remembered clearly enough and thought mattered enough to _her_ treatment when he was making notes later. Oh, there was the threat your father made, though, that bought your silence. Of course Blythe feels guilty about that." She broke off as he tightened up again, his eyes losing focus slightly. "Greg? Hey, come on. I'm here." She crawled back into bed with him, lying along his right side, holding him tightly.

"That . . . I found out what Patrick meant to do with that picture he wanted to steal. The prosecutor told me. He didn't realize what it meant, though."

"What?"

"Patrick kept a . . . log, a list of things he'd done and he'd like to do. It was on the computer." She shuddered. "Most of it about the kids. But one line there from last Friday that the prosecutor couldn't figure out was that threat. I think he was going to rip her out of a picture that I was familiar with and then write that . . . " He shivered again.

Cuddy pulled him over against her shoulder, simply holding him. "It's okay, Greg. He didn't. And we'll work out something, somehow. We'll find a way to replace that image, too."

_We_. He smiled, even through the tension. He wasn't fighting his battles alone anymore. The crushing, horrible solitude of his life was over.

Just then, House's cell phone, which Cuddy had plugged in to charge the previous night, chirped from the nightstand. House and Cuddy separated and then looked at it, then at the clock. "Who the hell sends a text at 5:30 a.m.?"

She picked up the phone but then offered it to him, not looking herself. He didn't have his glasses on, and he peered at the screen. Cuddy retrieved his glasses from the nightstand, and he slid them on, then held the phone where they could view the message together.

It was from Jensen. _Beware of the media._

House groaned. "The media. Damn. I hadn't even thought . . . of _course_ Patrick would be a story. And once charges are filed, it becomes public record."

Cuddy hugged him again. "We'll deal with it, Greg. Actually, you just said it yourself. _Patrick_ is a story. I'm sure they'll be interested in you, but the overall focus will be on what he did and bringing him to justice."

"But anybody searching his background will hook him up with Ann Bellinger, and that will lead to that dropped lawsuit, and _that_ has everything in it."

"Not everything," she countered. "Remember how much is _not_ in those notes or in the legal papers."

"But they'll know the general truth and enough specifics that they'll all feel sorry for me. Hell, this probably actually _will_ make the front page of the New York Times."

Cuddy forced his head back around to make eye contact. "Greg, they will _not_ feel sorry for you. Not even the media, on their mission to get all the details they can. They'll _admire_ you. This probably is going to hit national news, you're right, but nobody is going to present you as a failure in it."

He sighed. "Sure you don't want to change your mind for somebody with less baggage?"

"Never." She kissed him again, and they were just starting to get delightfully distracted when a low murmur was heard over the monitor. Rachel was slowly starting to surface through the layers of sleep and would be fully awake in a few minutes.

"Got to talk to our daughters about timing," House commented. Cuddy grinned at him but stood up again, reaching for her robe. "Guess I'd better get up, too. I need to pick up the no-longer-ice bags before the girls wonder about them. Need to do something with all the other . . . _things_ in the car, too."

Cuddy paused in the middle of tying her robe around her. "Greg, what did that bastard do with vise grips?"

He immediately tensed up, and his eyes fell. "You don't want to know."

She came over to the bedside, reaching out again to touch him. "I don't want you to have to know alone."

_We_. He wasn't alone anymore, even with his memories. He hesitated, wondering if she really meant that, but all he saw was compassionate determination in her eyes. "He would . . . use them on . . . my toes. And fingers once."

Cuddy gulped, suddenly glad she hadn't eaten yet. "You mean _that's_ how he broke your toes?"

"Most of the time. A couple of times just with his hand if he got impatient, but he said he liked using the grips for . . . leverage and a better . . . crunch." He was quivering now, and she pulled him over against her.

"It's okay. It's all over. I apologize for . . . no, damn it, I don't apologize for asking. You shouldn't have had to go through everything alone, and you shouldn't have to remember it alone. But I apologize that you had to."

Rachel made another sound, getting closer to wakefulness, but Cuddy stood there holding House against her, his head buried in her chest, until he had stopped trembling. "It's okay, Greg," she repeated. "It's okay. And we'll work on the things in those notes, too. I'll help you. We will get Patrick."

He took a deep breath. "Thanks," he mumbled into her shirt.

"Thank you."

"For what?" He pulled away, bewildered.

"For trusting me enough to share things with me. Even yesterday."

"Mama? Dada?" Rachel was awake now. Cuddy released House and turned away. "I'll get the girls up. You get the ice bags, okay?"

"Okay." He sat up on the side of the bed and reached for his pill bottles, taking the morning meds. His leg was still sore - probably sitting in the closet hadn't been the best idea, either - but the residual of her touch lingered. It was bearable. He rubbed it for a minute, then stood up slowly, letting it adjust to function for the day.

He had just finished throwing away the ice bags and returned with a towel to throw down in the puddle in the living room when a knock sounded on the door. He scowled, looked at his watch, then limped over.

It was Wilson, looking edgy and concerned. House stared at him. "Don't remember inviting you for breakfast, but sure, come on in."

Wilson held out the folded newspaper in his hand. "Have you seen the morning paper?"

House shook his head, then fished his reading glasses back out of his pocket and unfolded the paper to the headline story.

**MAN ACCUSED OF SERIAL ABUSE OF YOUNG CHILDREN, MURDER OF ONE ACROSS FOUR STATES**

**Patrick Chandler Charged in Princeton Yesterday after Doctor Notifies Authorities**

_Patrick Chandler was officially charged last night with several counts of physical and sexual abuse and one count of felony murder in New Jersey, with further charges possible in New York, Michigan, and possibly Missouri. Chandler allegedly targeted single mothers and offered to help them with childcare, only to physically and sexually abuse their young children, including posing them for pictures. The latest victim, Christopher Bellinger, died last month of West Nile encephalitis, but authorities now claim that Chandler's activities led to the boy contracting the disease. Christopher's doctor, the renowned Dr. Gregory House of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, was apparently the first to suspect him and contacted authorities. While that investigation was inconclusive and was dropped due to Christopher's death, Chandler then in a quest for revenge convinced Ann Bellinger, Christopher's mother, to sue Dr. House, one of his colleagues, and the hospital, claiming that Dr. House's own experience with abuse as a child clouded his judgment on Christopher's case. Chandler also blackmailed a doctor inside the hospital to spread these details; that doctor has also been arrested since and charged with multiple violations of HIPAA, to which he entered a plea yesterday of guilty and will turn state's evidence on Chandler. _

_However, Dr. House retaliated against Chandler's efforts to discredit him by hiring a PI to investigate Chandler's background, turning up a horrifying trail of at least nine children in the last three years, and Dr. House took his discoveries to Ann Bellinger and then to the police. A police source, speaking on the condition of anonymity, confirmed the above details and also reported that there is physical evidence, including pictures of 12 children, in police custody, as well as evidence from the house pertinent to Christopher's death. Chandler also faces charges of soliciting the theft of medical records in Kentucky, where he obtained the confidential background information on Dr. House by having Dr. House's mother's therapy notes stolen from her psychiatrist's office. Authorities in Kentucky confirm that case, although they are now delaying filing until after the trial in New Jersey. Bail in New Jersey was denied at the time charges were filed last night. If convicted in New Jersey, Chandler could face life in prison without parole. Calls to Ann Bellinger's house last night were not returned. The prosecutor is expected to hold a news conference later today._

House closed his eyes. "Damn it. Thank God we've got an unlisted phone."

"That won't stop them," Wilson noted. "They'll track you down, at the hospital or here. They'll want a statement."

"Tough." House heard his family and turned around as Rachel raced down the hall, coming straight toward him confidently.

"Dada! Morning!"

"Good morning, Rachel." He hugged her, then moved over to greet Abby.

Cuddy was watching Wilson suspiciously, but she could tell from his expression that Wilson's own issues weren't the main thing on his mind at the moment. Whatever his reason was for being here, it really was for House. "Morning, Wilson. This is an early visit."

"He's delivering the paper," House explained. He handed it to Cuddy, taking Abby from her, and she read. When she looked up, fire was in her eyes.

"We'll deal with them, Greg."

"I know. I just wish we didn't have to." He shook his head. "_Everybody_ is going to know. This will probably be on 60 Minutes. By the way, I promised the prosecutor I'd meet him at 9:00 this morning. He wants to go over my evidence again - but if he wants me in a press conference, he can forget it."

"I'll go with you," Cuddy vowed. "If the press wants a statement, they can get one from _me_."

"That's not a bad idea, actually," Wilson suggested. "An official statement on behalf of the hospital, and of course, Cuddy would be the one to give it. The media isn't going to back off until they get _some_ kind of a statement from you."

Cuddy considered. "Good idea. I'll work on it this morning after we meet with the prosecutor. Board meeting this afternoon, unless you want me to go with you to Jensen, Greg."

He shook his head. "Have the board meeting. Might as well let them talk about it, too. At least I don't have to be there."

"The prosecutor, the media, the board, and Jensen," Wilson repeated. "Sounds like a full day."

"Breakfast!" Rachel demanded, pausing in her floor scampers to bring up the #1 item on her agenda.

House laughed. "You've got a point, Rachel. Want to stay for breakfast, Wilson?"

"Why not?"

Cuddy looked at him. "Sandra does know where you are, right?"

"Yes, she does. I showed her the paper; she agreed I ought to come." Still, a breakfast with the House family, even with problems, sounded better than one of mostly silence with Sandra with only his own guilt for company. At least here, he had been useful.

"Breakfast NOW!" Rachel demanded. Chuckling, the three adults headed into the kitchen.


	78. Chapter 78

Short update on a busy weekend with work when I'm sick besides. Send reviews; they are as good as chicken soup.

(H/C)

The prosecutor looked up as House and Cuddy entered. "Come in, Dr. House, Dr. Cuddy-House. Have a seat." House dropped into a chair, his eyes drawn like a magnet to the papers on the prosecutor's desk. Martin had been perusing a copy of Blythe's therapy notes. Great, House thought. So he now had a better idea just how screwed up his prize witness was. He looked for discouragement in the man's body language, but there was none.

Cuddy was following a different train of thought. She smacked the morning paper down on Martin's desk. "Have you seen this?"

Martin gave a sympathetic nod. "Oh, yes, the media is all over this story. That was bound to happen."

"How did they get so many details so quickly?" Cuddy demanded.

"Partly from the charges on Andrews yesterday, partly from the Bellinger case, partly from the charges on Chandler here and the arrest warrant from Kentucky. Plus the anonymous source. I wish I knew who those were, but they often turn up on stories. The media isn't revealing their inside leads, of course. But in this day and age, a good investigative reporter with a few connections can come up with an amazing amount of information very quickly. I'm holding a press conference later. The trick is to try to appear to be keeping them informed while still not telling them everything, but really, there's nothing in that article that's either untrue or that is giving information away to the defense. The defense gets all my information anyway in discovery, like I get theirs. This isn't like TV where a surprise witness walks into court on the day of the trial and blindsides the other side with new information." House, who hadn't said a word so far, was still looking at the therapy notes, and Martin followed his fixed gaze. "I've been studying your background, Dr. House."

House rolled his eyes. "So now you know just how . . ." Cuddy bopped him on the arm, slamming the door on his comment, her eyes annoyed, and he shut up meekly.

"I do have a lot more specific details than I had Monday," Martin admitted, "but it's far from negative. Your working reputation is superb; that will be a lot of help to us and add weight to your testimony. And your background history, if I may say so, is inspirational."

House stared at him. "Inspirational?"

"Yes. To have survived what you did and made such a success of your life anyway is a tribute to your strength of character. Let's get something straight before we start today, Dr. House. I'm on your side. We're going to go into your testimony in more detail today, but I'm not trying to trip you up here, and I don't think anybody including the media is going to be judging you. In a few days, we'll probably have another conference when I'll try to prepare you for cross-examination somewhat, but today, I'm not after that. Okay, some more details on the case. I charged Chandler yesterday with nineteen counts of physical abuse and twelve counts of sexual abuse against Christopher. I got those numbers from the log on his computer, calling each entry specifically naming Christopher one incident of physical abuse, and from the pictures, calling each picture one incident of sexual abuse. Of course, much more is to come in New York and Michigan, even if we're past statute of limitations in Missouri, but on this alone, he could get life in prison without parole. I also did charge him with felony murder."

"I saw that in the paper," Cuddy stated. "You said that might be hard to prove a direct link."

"I'm sure the defense will try to knock that charge down, but we have a stronger case than I thought we did. Simmons found one picture among those of Christopher that was extremely interesting. Christopher is tied up in the shed, clothed but posed suggestively with his pants pulled partway down, but an enlargement zooming in on his left arm shows a mosquito in the process of biting him. The pictures are also dated, and the incubation period for West Nile fits perfectly with the date on that one. We will be arguing that this picture shows a very strong circumstantial link between transmission of the disease and the abuse. That charge might get dropped down to a lesser one at the trial, but I'm sure now that we can get _some_ charge to stick related to Christopher's death. There also is a small amount of Christopher's blood as well as some skin cells from both Christopher and from Chandler on the rope."

House was getting into the topic now. "Good. The paper said bail was denied."

"Yes. They did request, of course, but I never thought they had a chance at that. Also, a psychiatrist did turn up an hour ago to see Chandler. I'm almost positive they'll be going for insanity. There's no way around the physical evidence."

"When is the preliminary hearing?" House asked.

"Monday." Cuddy's eyebrows went up slightly, and Martin continued. "I know I could have pushed it off a few more days into next week, but I wanted one specific judge. They all have different personalities and styles in the courtroom. I thought our best chance was with this one, and he leaves next Wednesday for a vacation. Monday was the only slot he had."

"Monday." House could feel his pulse kicking up again. Cuddy picked up his hand and started stroking his fingers.

"Yes. Back to your background, Dr. House. I also turned up the difficulties with Detective Tritter from a few years ago."

House closed his eyes. "Oh, I can't _wait_ to be cross-examined on that."

"Actually, I only bring it up to reassure you on that point, assuming that you don't already know. Detective Tritter was dismissed from the force a year and a half ago for intimidation, strong-arming of witnesses, and padding charges. Trust me, I don't think the defense will be eager to bring him up."

The knot inside House untwisted half a turn. "I didn't know that. I'm not surprised, though. He definitely stepped over the line with me, both physically and in searching my apartment."

"There is only one question that I could possibly see the defense asking that's in any way related to that case, so I'll ask it myself. Do you have a legal prescription for all medications you are currently taking?"

"Yes," House replied definitely, and Cuddy nodded vigorously beside him.

"Good. That should completely end that issue. An interesting thought struck me on this as I was reading through your mother's therapy notes. They aren't complete in regards to you, of course, but they do paint an overall picture. As I understand it, your father's physical abuse of you started at age three and continued throughout your childhood."

House was tightening up again, but he answered. "Actually, the _physical _abuse stopped in my teens when I finally got big enough to kick the SOB in the balls once." Martin grinned. "The . . . emotional abuse continued my whole life to the point of his death about two years ago."

"And you held silence all your life based on the threat against your mother."

House nodded, unable to hide the shudder that went through him. "I still think he might have really been capable of that."

"Again, Dr. House, it is truly admirable what you have made of your life in spite of your father. The notes say that you had started therapy yourself before your mother did and that it was in fact your psychiatrist who suggested treatment for her. Are you still in therapy?"

House nodded. "Since February of last year. I've got an appointment with my psychiatrist this afternoon, actually, and we'll be talking about the case."

"Excellent. Again, that will help us a lot. I'm assuming that your official diagnosis is post traumatic stress disorder?"

"Yes." House looked down at his left hand, held between both of Cuddy's. She was still stroking it, the light playing off their rings as her fingers moved over his.

"One thing I wanted to emphasize to you at the beginning today," Martin said. "It isn't uncommon to have a witness with PTSD; I have worked with more than I can count in my career, unfortunately. Either with abuse cases or with rape cases. Of course, normally it is the survivor - I refuse to call those admirable people victims - testifying against the perpetrator. This case is different in that you will be facing someone trying to use your past against you instead of facing your father in person. However, I really think it might be similar in a lot of ways. You never got a chance to confront your father and see legal justice for him. This might almost be considered a chance by proxy, helping with justice for all these children. But it is not unusual, either for me or for the judge, to encounter a witness with PTSD in a case, and actually, they usually make very strong witnesses." House looked up in surprise. "It's almost cathartic to them. It gives back part of the control that was ripped away. And the impact of a person facing an abuser in court is very powerful to the jury. You are _not_ a detriment to this case, Dr. House. You are going to be an immense help to me in seeing justice served for Chandler."

House was studying him, gauging his sincerity, but Martin was unwavering. Finally, House switched subjects, as usual when he was feeling pinned to emotion on one. "So let's get started going over my testimony, then. Can't keep the media waiting for their press conference, you know."

Martin smiled. "Trust me, the media will wait if needed. There is no one more like a bulldog than a reporter on the scent of a story. But one thing needs to be understood up front. You have to tell me the truth, even if you think it will harm things. Don't leave the defense a chance to blindside me. Agreed?" House nodded after a moment, and Martin took out a notebook and set it on top of Blythe's therapy notes, a fresh, blank page. "All right, let's get started."


	79. Chapter 79

A/N: The internet is down completely this morning - can't work. Writing this to make use of the time while "technical support is aware of a problem and is working to resolve it," and will post it once up.

About Ativan, yes, it absolutely is a controlled substance. However, Jensen, a licensed physician, gave that to House. Sort of like office samples, which physicians hand out all the time, to see if a med is effective for a patient before giving the patient the expense of actually filling a full bottle at a pharmacy. If a licensed physician gives a patient a med and says, "Take this," legally he has prescribed it. One of the biggest differences between a psychiatrist and a psychologist is that a psychiatrist is an MD and has the authority to prescribe medication. A psychologist does not.

(H/C)

"This isn't cross examination today," Martin repeated. "I'm just trying to get the most detailed picture of events I can; I'm not trying to trip you. What made you first suspect Chandler?"

House hesitated for a moment. "Actually, it was back before Christopher. I met him at my psychiatrist's wedding in March; he was dating a distant relative. He reached across the table for a roll at the rehearsal dinner, and he had my father's hands."

"Physically, you mean? Or in attitude?"

"Somewhat physically, but more in attitude. They were _dominating_, like they couldn't wait to crush whatever they grabbed onto."

"Had you been thinking about your father that evening?"

"No. It was out of the blue. Totally surprised me."

"Do you routinely run into people who remind you of your father in some way?"

"Not like that. I . . . dislike authority figures in general; Dad was a Marine. But not an abrupt reminder like that. Almost all of the . . . reminders are things. Not people." Cuddy squeezed his hand, cringing herself at the image of vise grips on those beautiful, musician's fingers or on his toes, imagining that _crunch_ that John obviously had enjoyed. House felt it and looked over at her, cocking an eyebrow.

"I'm okay, Greg. Go on."

"Tritter was probably the closest. He was a lot like Dad. But that didn't jump out the first second I met him; it took me a few minutes to get him classified. It wasn't until he knocked my cane out from under me that I moved him over from obnoxious patient to sadistic bully."

Martin couldn't help reacting to that. "He knocked your cane out from under you?"

"Yes. He came to the clinic at the hospital, and he was annoyed at having to wait. He didn't like it that I was treating him just like any old patient, and he nearly knocked me over. I would have fallen if I hadn't been right by the wall."

Martin shook his head. "There are a lot of similar stories on him. The force is better off without him. Back to Chandler, I just want to get this clear. You don't routinely get reminded of your father by people at first meeting."

"No."

"What did you do at that point?"

"Nothing. Later on that evening, I did warn Jensen - that's my psychiatrist - just because he has an 8-year-old daughter and I knew Patrick might be a relative. I just advised him to watch out for Cathy if they ever had any contact."

"Did you have a flashback that night when you met Chandler?"

"No. They're . . . getting a lot less frequent. I can usually work around them now."

"Good. It doesn't help us that you suspected Chandler back in March, but the fact that it happened out of the blue and that you did nothing to follow up on that evening _does_ help us. The defense, of course, will try to say you were projecting your father."

"But we've got the pictures and everything now," Cuddy objected.

"If they claim multiple personality disorder, they will probably say that the only reason Dr. House had _continual_ suspicions was because of his father, and that Chandler's more innocent personalities deceiving the women was actually the true picture. After you talked to your psychiatrist that evening, Dr. House, did you do anything else to follow up Chandler in any way?"

"No. I forgot completely about him."

"Good. Did you encounter Chandler again before Christopher's illness?"

"No. I met them that morning at the hospital, met them at the elevator, actually. I recognized him instantly. Don't think he recognized me. On the elevator ride up to their floor, Ann was worrying about her son, and Patrick was dismissing it as a ploy for attention. Again, that reminded me of my father. He downplayed everything, even my leg. He was always reminding me how real men got disabled."

Martin flinched. "Did you follow Chandler and Ms. Bellinger to her son?"

"No. They got off at their floor, and I went on up to mine. Once I was in my office, I was looking over the ER log with the team, looking for an interesting case. We do that every morning if we don't have a case at the moment. Christopher was listed with part of his presenting complaint being bruises. Given bruises combined with Patrick being involved with his mother, I wanted a closer look at the boy."

"So the first time you actively followed up on Chandler wasn't until you read Christopher's presenting complaint?"

"Right."

"Good. We can use that. It helps counteract the idea that you were in the grip of your own memories instead of facts, because you certainly seem to have had a few previous opportunities to investigate him. What happened when you saw Christopher?"

"He was . . . _scared_. He was watching Chandler specifically. Not scared of men in general, but any time Chandler even twitched, he noticed it. He also was very reluctant to give any physical complaint, to answer questions what hurt and how he was feeling, and his eyes kept going back over to Chandler anytime I asked a physical question. He'd clearly been threatened not to tell others when he was hurt. Physically, he had bruises like someone had been holding him firmly by the upper arms. He did have a clotting disorder, which made everything more complicated, but I thought there was enough physical evidence to warrant an investigation."

"No obvious injuries from the ropes, though?"

"No. He had older bruises, too, but . . . I think he was past the stage of struggling when I saw him. The blood on the ropes was old. You _stop_ fighting the ropes after a while. It doesn't do any good." House shivered, and Cuddy stroked his hand.

"Easy, Greg."

"So that's when you called CPS?"

"Yes. I went back to my office and filed the report with them, then I went back to the room to continue working on Christopher's case. _Medically_, I mean. I had a feeling once I saw him that he really was sick, much more than they realized."

"So you did your best to completely focus on the medical case and leave the abuse question to the authorities?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. It really sounds like all of your actions that day were rational, not like somebody caught in the grip of the past. What was Chandler's reaction through that day?"

"He was annoyed. He was mad at first that I thought Christopher was really sick and convinced Ann Bellinger of that, because he thought Christopher was just wimping out. Once CPS showed up, he totally blew his top and attacked me."

Martin sat up a little straighter. "He _attacked _you?"

House nodded. "He hit me right in the face. Gave me a black eye before he could be pulled off. But after that, he was manipulating, trying to convince Ann Bellinger that I suspected _her_ of abuse, and that was why I called CPS."

"How did Chandler know you had been the one to make that call?"

House looked down at his hand again, held between Cuddy's. "I think probably if he was setting off all my radar, it's safe to say that I was doing the same with his. He hadn't noticed anything back at the wedding, but that day, when we were around each other so much, he probably figured it out."

"Quite likely. So Chandler attacked you, but he was still manipulating Ann Bellinger. That's quite good, actually. Assuming that he did have MPD, one could imagine one of his innocent personalities being quite blindsided by the CPS investigation, but he wouldn't have been as quick to focus on you or to turn her against you. He would have been more sputtering general denials to everybody. What happened then?"

"I went back to my office and talked to Cuddy, and then she talked to Ann and convinced her to let me stay on the case."

"So you kept working the medical case the rest of that day."

"Yes. We diagnosed Christopher late that evening, and I was at the hospital all night with him. He died about 5:00 a.m. the next morning." House shook his head, remembering the maddening futility of those final hours, knowing he was losing, unable to do a thing more to help the boy.

"What happened after Christopher's death, from your standpoint?"

House shrugged. "Nothing. I went home. Took a few day off - I'd been up all night on the case. Came back to the hospital and went back to work. CPS did invite me to observe the autopsy, but I turned them down."

"Why?"

"I . . . didn't think I could take it. I also thought it might prejudice things if they found anything and proceeded with charges."

"In between Christopher's death and the civil papers being served, did you take _any_ steps to follow up on Chandler?"

"No. It was over, as far as I was concerned."

"So the legal papers came as a complete surprise to you?"

"Yes."

"What did you do that afternoon?"

House hesitated. "I had an appointment with my psychiatrist anyway - I do every Friday. I went to that appointment. I was actually mad at him; I thought the background information must have come from his office. He convinced me it hadn't. Then Cuddy called about Hadley's death. My psychiatrist drove me back to Princeton." House felt fury rising in him again. "Damn it, I wish we could charge him with that somehow. He was responsible for her suicide."

Martin sighed. "Morally, I agree. Legally, unfortunately, that was her decision, and he was nowhere around when she made it."

House's cell phone went off at that moment, the Mmm Bop filling the room. He pulled it out. "Kind of busy right now . . . what? . . . _no_, it doesn't matter where I am . . . if we've ruled out a primary pulmonary cause, look for cardiac. Transesophageal echo. Get the clearest picture you can of the heart. We're looking for either a valve problem or a microscopic tumor. Right. . . yes, I'll probably be there in an hour or two. Try to keep from killing the patient before then, but _if _you come close to killing the patient, let Taub be the one in charge of the paddles. Okay? Bye." He clicked off firmly.

Martin had watched all of this fascinated. "You're quite compartmentalized, aren't you?"

"That's one word for it," Cuddy stated.

"Again, that will help us. The defense is going to be claiming exactly the opposite, that your own past kept spilling over into your perceptions of Chandler. I think I really can believe you were solely working the medical case that day with Christopher after calling CPS."

"I was," House insisted.

"Back to Chandler. We know that he had Andrews distribute the legal papers in the hospital."

"He mailed copies, too," Cuddy stated. "To my mother, Greg's mother."

"What was your reaction to that?"

"I . . . at first, I was totally overwhelmed. _None_ of those people had known. Well, except for my mother, and that wasn't because I told her. My best friend took it upon himself to do that. I was . . . afraid it would impact how they saw me at the hospital and interfere with work. After a day or two, I decided to investigate Chandler's background to see if there were others. I knew he moved from woman to woman, because the one he was with at the wedding wasn't in the picture any longer, and that wasn't that long ago. So I hired a PI."

"What were your intentions at that point?"

"I wanted to get enough evidence against him to go to Ann Bellinger and convince her to drop the case. I went up with Jensen to his wife's cousin in Syracuse, and at that point, I started getting a better picture of exactly how Patrick had worked. I decided then to go to CPS with Lucas' report if it was enough to."

"And what was your motive for deciding that?"

"To stop him," House said simply. "To end the string of kids with Christopher."

"From your point of view, what were Chandler's activities during that next week?"

"He wanted to get the hospital talking, but actually, it turns out that half of them didn't believe him anyway." House grinned. "They already knew I was an obnoxious bastard. He was having trouble changing their minds. So then he got the idea of the carpet glue in my office. He obviously wanted to knock me into a public flashback."

"Which didn't work, apparently."

House shivered. "It . . . might have. If I'd gone in there unprepared. But the team told me."

"And then the picture. Obviously that line in the log was related to his ideas on defacing a picture of your parents and planting it. I hadn't read through your mother's notes at the time I mentioned it on the phone yesterday."

House looked down at his hands. "That probably would have worked."

"Thankfully, it didn't have a chance to. But just to be clear, throughout your acquaintance with Chandler, has he ever seemed to be 'changing' gears to you, conniving at times and innocent at others?"

House shook his head vigorously. "No. He's been absolutely calculating all the way through. Like when he attacked me. That's the only time I've seen him totally blow his stack, but even then, he was trying to manipulate Ann right after that."

"And what was his attitude to Christopher as you observed it?"

"Annoyed. He acted like the entire hospitalization was a ploy for attention and a waste of time."

"Did you _ever_ see him demonstrate concern toward Christopher?"

"Never."

"And you were around him quite extendedly that afternoon and night."

"Yes."

Martin put down the pen. "Okay, Dr. House, I think we've done enough today. You really are going to be invaluable in this case. I'd like to meet again this weekend, maybe Sunday, and try to introduce some of the things I think the defense will be attempting."

House nodded. "I'm seeing my psychiatrist again on Saturday, too."

"Good. I'll be in touch with you." Martin stood up and reached across to shake hands, a gesture that House normally hated, but the prosecutor's grip, while firm, wasn't the usual effort to impose your entire character by grip that most people had. "I must say, Dr. House, it's an honor to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances." He shook hands with Cuddy. "If you want to leave the back way, the media is waiting for me out front."

"Thank you," Cuddy said. "I was thinking about putting together a brief statement from the hospital, just to give them something so they don't pester Greg to death."

"A good idea, but I'd appreciate reading it first."

"Okay," Cuddy agreed.

Five minutes later, they were back out at the car. House dropped into the passenger's seat with a sigh.

"That wasn't too bad," Cuddy said encouragingly. "You did really well, Greg."

"He was trying to be nice today. It's like good cop, bad cop. It's the cross examination we have to worry about."

"They're underestimating you, though. They have all along." Cuddy closed the driver's door but didn't start the car right away.

"We've got to find some more good associations, too. We're still missing a few on things they know about, and some of those are going to be tough ones."

"We'll get there, Greg. Want to swing by home and see the girls for a minute or go on to the hospital?"

He looked at his watch. "We'd better go on to the hospital. Not quite lunch time yet, and I know you've got lots of work there. Plus I'll be leaving early to drive to Middletown anyway, and I need to check on the patient." He grinned suddenly. "Speaking of the girls, it's a good thing that Rachel wasn't there when you bopped me a little while ago. She'd be insisting that you apologize."

"You were about to call yourself totally screwed up, and that just isn't true. However, for the record, I apo . . . _no, _damn it, I'm sorry." She leaned over, closing the gap, and kissed him deeply. "Did you hear me? I'm sorry, Greg." Another extended kiss. "I'm sorry . . . (kiss) . . . for everything. Get it? I'm sorry."

He finally broke away for oxygen a minute later. "Wow. Now _that's_ an apology."

"And one that we need to practice, don't forget."

He grinned at her. "We've also got several non-ice baths to take in the hot tub, too. You know, this strategy might actually have its advantages."


	80. Chapter 80

Morning, readers! A short celebration chapter - this is the first morning since last Wednesday that I really am feeling better, only woke up four times last night with coughing fits. Antibiotics definitely helping. Being sick and having to work anyway ain't fun. Anyhow, MH continues to roll toward the climax of the whole story - the cross-examination at the hearing, which will indeed involve fireworks of assorted kinds.

Thanks for the chicken soup reviews. You can switch to chocolate reviews now, if you want, since I'm on the upswing. You know you've been sick when chocolate didn't sound appealing.

(H/C)

House and Cuddy entered the lobby of PPTH and walked straight into the media.

Several reporters were there, along with one video crew. The receptionist was in the process of trying to convince them that neither House nor Cuddy was on the premises, which the reporters weren't buying for a minute. The beleaguered receptionist, seeing Cuddy enter, straightened up with the relief of an overwhelmed underling who sees true authority step through the door. "Dr. Cuddy!" she called. "These _people_ are insisting that they have to talk . . ."

She didn't get any further, as the group of media made an instant about-face worthy of military drills at her words. They surged forward, tripping over each others words in the effort to land the first question.

"Dr. Cuddy! Could you tell us. . ."

"Dr. House! What first led you to suspect Chandler?"

"Do you have a comment about . . ."

"Is it true that. . ."

House froze, and Cuddy squared her shoulders and added at least 6 inches to her petite height. "Go, Greg!" she hissed under her breath. He tried to dodge out the side and get around the baying pack of media hounds, but he was a lot slower than they were. They shifted along with him. Cuddy moved along herself, trying to maintain a buffer, and raised her voice. "I will have a statement for the press in 30 minutes, and you are all welcome to wait in the main lecture hall. But at the moment, you are disrupting the lobby of the hospital, and our main mission remains, as always, ministering to the sick. You need to move."

They ignored her, fixated on House, raining down continual questions. He was still trying to get to the elevator. Cuddy gave her best referee whistle, bringing the startled mob to momentary silence. "This is a _hospital_. I am about to call Security, and anybody who doesn't wish to wait quietly in the lecture hall for a statement and brief news conference in 30 minutes can be escorted out by Security before then. I will _not_ have our mission to the sick disrupted by your 3-ring circus. Any reporter escorted out of PPTH will not be allowed to receive any future statements on this or any future news from the hospital." They stared at her, gauging her sincerity. Cuddy called across the lobby to the receptionist. "Call Security, stat." And why on earth haven't you already done it, she added to herself silently.

House reached the elevator and stabbed frantically at the button, then turned quickly, the closed door at his back, to keep his eyes on the mob. The group had drifted along with him, Cuddy still the barrier. Right then, in the momentary silence, House's cell phone rang, the Mmm Bop sounding incongruous, and he pulled it out, still watching the reporters. "House. I'll be up in . .. what? NO, don't get side tracked by arrhythmia. It's a symptom, and it's not even one that shows us a new direction. We were already on that road anyway. We're looking for a _cause._ What about the transesophageal echo?" His eyes had changed focus, not even seeing the reporters now, the blue fire of genius blazing as he made a mental whiteboard of the far wall and studied the symptoms he wrote there. Cameras clicked. The video zoomed in for a close-up. "How big of a technical disruption? Ever occur to you that a slight technical flaw in the study might actually be the hidden medical flaw in the patient we're looking for? There IS a microscopic tumor in the heart somewhere, and that's what's causing everything. Look at the scans again. I'll be there in two minutes to go over the films myself, and hopefully, we'll have this one solved before lunch." The elevator dinged open behind him, and he turned, the media forgotten, and entered. The door slid closed behind him.

Cuddy faced the media. "NOW, as I said, this is a _hospital_. Anyone not respecting our primary purpose, in which the _patients_ have priority, may leave either voluntarily or with escort. The rest of you may wait in the lecture hall for a brief statement from me on behalf of Dr. House and the hospital in about 30 minutes. But you will not be allowed to disrupt hospital operations in the lobby or elsewhere. You will have to respect patients and family at all times and not bother them. If you don't like those rules, the exit is behind you. The lecture hall is down that hallway to your right." They slowly began to disperse, filtering that way. The receptionist gave a sigh of relief. Cuddy glared at her, then switched glare to Security, finally arriving in the form of three uniforms.

"We were paged, Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "High time you got here." She addressed the senior of them, the assistant head of the department. "I want security stationed at the main doors. Any media entering will be directed to the lecture hall. Any of them not cooperating will be escorted out. Anyone creating a disruption of hospital function in public areas like the lobby will be escorted out and not allowed to return. This is a _hospital_. Patients are a higher priority than the evening news." Head up, heels clicking, she marched toward her office.

(H/C)

Foreman sat in their - _his_ - apartment, drinking coffee to try to wash down aspirin against the hangover. He had had the TV on, looking for distraction, and found the prosecutor's news conference, brief and professional, instead. Annoyed but unable to turn away, he watched that and was just about to change the channel at the end of it when the scene on the screen shifted to a much more familiar setting. "And now a live update from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, where we are awaiting a statement on behalf of Dr. House and the hospital from Dr. Lisa Cuddy-House, administrator. She and Dr. House arrived a few minutes ago, and it was immediately obvious what has established Dr. House's sterling medical reputation. Ignoring questions, he was far more concerned with his own patient." A brief video clip played of that cell phone consultation with the team, including a nice close-up of House, head tilted, eyes blazing, deep in differential, obviously unaware right then how many people were watching. He turned his back on the media and entered the elevator, still totally wrapped up in his case. The scene then shifted back to the reporter, with the familiar background of the lecture hall. "And there you have the essence of Dr. House on display, a man who not only blew the whistle on an alleged serial abuser but who also would then rather return quietly to his job and focus on patients than bask in the spotlight. One can easily see what sort of man he is. Stay tuned for coverage shortly of the upcoming statement by Dr. Cuddy-House from Princeton-Plainsboro, and remember, you always see it first on Channel 8!"

Foreman stabbed the button on the remote, silencing the TV, and then shook his aching head, which didn't help either the hangover or his thoughts.

House, at PPTH, doing a differential just like any other day. Being _praised _for it by the media.

The "team," or the remnants of it, Kutner and Taub, still working.

Life going on. Patients going on. The job going on. Without him. Without _her._

It just wasn't fair. She had died, too. She had also been a victim of this man the TV and papers were consumed with today, and nobody noticed. Her death barely had a short mention in the coverage. No one would ever be charged in it. The world didn't stop to pay tribute to her. Instead, as always, it was House, House, _House_, yet another chorus of the well-known song he seemed to have spent his working life hearing.

_He_ couldn't even stop to honor her passing, because without a decision he was down to the wire on, his career whether in or out of PPTH would be irrevocably shattered. He had to focus on doing something for work himself today. Besides, the rage at Cuddy that had filled him yesterday had stunned him, and even two bottles of scotch later that afternoon and evening did not drink away the shock. Did he really have a problem? In general, not just with House?

But why couldn't life just leave him _alone _for a while and let him mourn her? Just one day where _somebody_ at least paused to take notice instead of moving on. She was the forgotten one.

He shook his aching head again. "I'm sorry, Remy," he said softly. "But I've got to do this today. I haven't got a working future if I don't. At least I remember you died, too, even if I'm the only one." With a sigh, he reached for the yellow pages and picked back up the phone.


	81. Chapter 81

A/N: A few more scenes for your hopeful enjoyment. I'm trying to keep chipping away on MH every chance I get, because I want to get this story completely up and posted before the end of this month. I am adding rehearsals with a new music group just for March and April, but that on top of my already-existing ones, plus work, plus the RL not-so-fun mayhem, will seriously push me. Doubt I'll have time to write anything those two months other than mentally. This would be too much as a long-term commitment, but for only two months and for a chance to be in this production, I can take it. Probably you guys wouldn't be so happy left hanging on MH for a 2-month break, though. :) That would be too cruel, to hit something like the defense attorney rising to cross-examine and then going on extended hiatus. So if at all possible, this story WILL be finished out during February.

Time wise, the story will for all practical purposes end Monday night, although the final few paragraphs, very short scene, are from Tuesday morning. Story time, we are now on Wednesday morning, approaching noon. So there are 5 more days of story time left after "today." They have a lot in them, though. No House stories are floating around to follow this one at the moment, which might well change but is out of my control.

(H/C)

Cuddy collected her massive stack of messages and retreated to her office, sitting down at her unusually cluttered desk with a sigh. She studied the stacks she'd been sorting yesterday before House came in on his insane quest to "toughen himself up," but she didn't regret her decision in the least. She cringed to think of him putting himself through yesterday alone; there was no question that he wouldn't have made it through the day before falling completely apart. Thank God once again for Jensen; at least that particular madness from yesterday was behind them, even if events still refused to leave them alone. Another quick scan and assessment, adding the new messages to the appropriate piles, and then she opened Word on the computer and started composing a brief statement on behalf of House and the hospital, trying to stay minimal but sound informative, as Martin had advised. She wished House happy differentialing, knowing that getting lost in a case at the moment was the best thing for him, and then she forced her mind to join her fingers at the task at hand.

Ten minutes later, she sat back and read over her final draft.

_Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and Dr. Gregory House look forward to the successful resolution in court of all issues related to the charges against Patrick Chandler but are unable to discuss exact details of the pending legal case while it is working its way through the justice system. Dr. House's point of view as a mandated reporter is that he was doing only what would have been required of any health care worker in opening a CPS investigation into Christopher Bellinger, and from that point, further events have been beyond his control or the hospital's. PPTH and Dr. House will strive to continue as the court case works out to focus on our current patients, and we ask the media to respect that focus, as current patients are and should be the priority of any hospital. We would like to extend our deepest condolences to the families of Christopher Bellinger and of one of our own, Dr. Remy Hadley. _

She read it over again, then picked up the phone and called Martin.

"Nicely stated," the prosecutor approved when she read the draft to him. "You're good at your job, Dr. Cuddy-House."

"I'll try to keep questions minimal, but I'll have to answer a few to pacify them. I'm running interference here; they nearly swarmed Greg in the lobby the minute we walked in. He had trouble making an escape." Cuddy gritted her teeth. "And _why_ the hell my receptionist hadn't already called Security to corral them is beyond me." She inserted a discussion about that into her day's agenda.

"They're corralled now, though?"

"Yes. I've got them in the lecture hall waiting for me." Cuddy shook her head. "I'll be glad when next Monday is over. Maybe things will settle down some then - I hope. Assuming that Chandler gets shelved in jail awaiting trial like he should be, and then maybe the media can just leave us alone until the full trial." She sighed.

"I hope things settle down some, too. I realize the media is only multiplying the insult from your point of view. But I was _very_ impressed with Dr. House this morning," Martin reiterated.

"Thank you for taking it easy with him today. He's had a rough few weeks." Which had to be the understatement of the century.

"I _was_ just trying to build rapport this morning, but I must say, I was encouraged. He's clearly already used to talking through events in a straightforward narrative while trying to avoid getting stuck in the attached emotions at this point, even if the audience had changed from the one he's used to. That year and a half of therapy is obvious."

"Yes," she agreed. "How hard do you think the defense is going to go after him?"

It was Martin's turn to sigh. "I think they'll hit him as hard as they can, and they have a lot more weapons than they should, thanks to Chandler. But I do think he'll be a strong witness, and this is exactly why I wanted this specific judge. Of all of them, he is the one I think would be most offended by certain defense tactics in his courtroom. All judges will draw the line, but some draw it sooner than others. Dr. House will have a very unpleasant time of it, but I do think we can win. By the way, Chandler is almost certainly going to be going for multiple personalities. According to the guards, he's trying a few out today after the psychiatrist came first thing this morning. We've got the sullen, silent one, the one demanding to know what on earth is going on and acting bewildered and innocent, and then one angrily insisting that he talk to Reginald Travis, like he doesn't know what happened when he sent Travis to the house on Monday and thinks Travis is still his attorney."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Gee, I wonder which one of those will just happen to turn up at the hearing on Monday."

"Exactly. What a fortunate 'coincidence' for their side that will be. We can beat him, though."

"I'd better get down to the lecture hall before the vultures get tired of waiting and start looking around. Although Security's on them now. By the way, what about Travis?"

"His charges are much less than Chandler's, of course, and he did make bail, but I doubt he'll try anything while he's waiting for his own case. He'd never rank anything else over saving his own skin when push comes to shove, and he knows the police are watching him now. He wouldn't hurt his own case. He's almost certainly going to wind up disbarred, in addition to the legal consequences. Breaking and entering, attempting to conceal evidence, attempting to subvert justice. He'll claim Chandler was behind everything all along and he didn't know all details of what was on the computer or of Chandler's other activities himself, of course. What he did with the paperwork is unethical but not technically illegal; it's Monday morning where he really crossed the line, but they must have thought he had time to get away with it before the police arrived at that house. He might ultimately offer to testify against Chandler, but he hasn't yet, and I'm not sure I'd want him to. Not sure if we'll need him, and I'd hate to deprive him of one day of his own jail time in a deal unless I had to. I'll be in touch this weekend, Dr. Cuddy, and meanwhile, I hope that you and Dr. House have a peaceful and relaxing Thanksgiving with your family."

Cuddy's stomach dropped through her shoes. "Um, the same to you, Mr. Martin. Goodbye." She spent a minute debating which would be more traumatic, the media or the relatives, then gave up the debate as pointless, ran off a sheaf of copies of her statement, and headed for the lecture hall with all of the enthusiasm of a martyr approaching the lions. Her shoulders were still erect, though, and her chin up. She was responsible for diverting fire at the moment, and she wouldn't let House down.

The media was definitely growing impatient, but there was an instant hush as she walked into the room. She climbed the platform in front and faced the room, suddenly seized with a memory of House packing the same room full of candidates for his new fellows. She wondered which, if any, of the current occupants of the seats he would select as worthy. None looked promising at all to her. With a hidden smile, she set the stack of papers on the podium and began. "I'll start by reading a statement on behalf of the hospital and Dr. House. I do have copies for all of you to take as you return to your employers." She paused for effect, needlessly cleared her throat, then read her statement. Cameras were clicking, and she saw the red eye of the video camera, but the audience was the picture of alert attention until she reached the magic words at the end. "Now I will take a few limited questions."

The room erupted, and she held up a hand firmly. They died down to a rebellious rumble. "In order. Second row." She pointed.

The woman indicated stood. "Dr. Cuddy-House, is it true that Dr. House has a background of severe abuse himself and that that is why he first suspected Chandler and realized that Christopher was a victim?"

Cuddy once more wished fervently for any way to simply recan this can of worms. "Christopher did have sufficient evidence physically to warrant the call to CPS."

"But is it true that . . ."

Cuddy cut her off firmly. "Dr. House's background is irrelevant to how he performs his duties for the hospital, including on Christopher's case. His professional reputation speaks for itself." She switched targets and indicated the next reporter.

Not that that helped much, of course. They were perfectly willing to tag team. "Chandler has been charged with theft of Dr. House's mother's psychiatrist's notes from Kentucky, and it has been stated by a source that those notes formed the basis for the specific incidents revealed in the paperwork on the Bellinger civil case. Doesn't the root source so close to Dr. House indicate that the background the legal papers claim is true?"

Cuddy felt her ire rising. "Those legal papers also claimed things that I can absolutely prove are untrue, such as that Dr. House was distracted and worked inefficiently on that case. From the time he took the case over to diagnosis was only about 12 hours. That is exceptional time, certainly up to his usual standards. Those papers were also drawn up by the office of Reginald Travis, and I suggest you look into charges currently pending for him and draw your own conclusions as to his professional ethics and his honesty."

"But are the specific incidents of abuse mentioned in the papers true?"

"_WHAT difference does it make?_" Cuddy asked pointedly. "This case began when a report was made that Dr. House suspected Chandler of abuse. Obviously, the police at this point have definitely joined Dr. House in those suspicions, or else Chandler would not be charged. Clearly the police also found evidence to justify the bringing of formal charges. Why do the initial reasons for the suspicion matter? The important fact is that that suspicion has now been _confirmed_ by the legal authorities with enough support to base an arrest on." She was sure they all knew it was true by this point, and since this was part of the evidence at the hearing Monday, they would hear it confirmed from House himself in a few more days, but damn it, she wasn't going to outright state his past in a news conference. Let him hold at least the shredded illusion of privacy a little longer, even if everybody including the media and himself knew it was an illusion. She couldn't stand to be the one to remove it. "Enough on that topic. If someone has an unrelated question, I will take it."

"Where did the information come from regarding Dr. Hadley?"

"Clearly, Chandler hunted for people close to his targets to try to use for further information. I assume the information on Dr. Hadley came unintentionally through someone close to her."

"And was the information regarding her correct?"

Cuddy straightened up. "Once again, what difference does it make? True or false, the _allegation_ that she was unable to perform her job appropriately was disturbing enough to any conscientious professional, just as that allegation was to Dr. House. Whether the information was true makes no difference in how Chandler used those papers." She gave them a tight-lipped smile. "No discrimination here, ladies and gentlemen. I am not going to confirm _either_ of those backgrounds given in the legal papers. Period."

"Is it true that a doctor from PPTH widely distributed those papers around the hospital in violation of HIPAA?"

"Yes," she said. The simplicity of that response ricocheted around the room as they waited for the qualifying statement. There was none. Cuddy cheerfully consigned Andrews without any defense at all to the clutches of the media.

"What action has been taken with regard to Dr. Andrews?" someone asked after a few beats of silence.

"He has of course been terminated immediately from the hospital staff, but I think you'll discover that that's the least of his current problems," she stated. A rumble of amusement circled the room.

"What did Dr. Andrews have against Dr. House and Dr. Hadley?" another reporter asked hopefully, trying to pursue the topic she seemed willing to be open on.

"Nothing against Dr. Hadley that I know of, but he certainly was jealous of Dr. House. Dr. House is, in stark contrast to the false picture presented in those papers, a brilliantly efficient genius at diagnostic medicine, as countless sources worldwide will attest. Dr. Andrews was nowhere near so gifted, and he knew that." Cuddy glanced at her watch. Two or three simultaneous protest questions erupted at the implication that the conference was approaching an end. "One more question." She pointed.

"What will Dr. House be testifying to in court regarding Chandler?"

"He'll be telling that to the court, not the media beforehand. I cannot discuss the legal aspects of the case. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Here are copies of the official statement." She set them on the platform and slipped out the side door at the bottom of the room. With a deep breath, she headed for the lobby, both to ensure that the media left in an orderly fashion and to, in a perfectly conversational and low tone, absolutely fillet the receptionist at the front desk for her incompetence this morning.

(H/C)

House stood restlessly in his office, looking out the balcony door. He was holding the door open enough to let in some air but wasn't quite ready to walk out into the November chill yet. The case was solved, the half-team remaining to him gone to give the correct treatment, and he was free to think about the upcoming hearing.

_What_ on earth could be positive about carpet glue?

The smell was still here, pushing down on him, all the more annoying because he _knew_ that his mind was magnifying it and that the true smell wasn't anything near this strong.

He took another half step forward, breathing in the clear, cold air. The office door opened behind him, and the unmistakable sound of Wilson's patent leathers crossed the new carpet. "What?" House asked, not turning.

"It's lunchtime," Wilson prompted. House sighed. He'd totally forgotten about it, nor was he hungry after the relentless events of the day so far.

"Think I'll pass today. It's a 3-ring circus down there. Going down to the cafeteria would just . . ."

A plate extended around to the front of him, his Reuben delivered. "That's why I went down to get it first. I figured you wouldn't want to risk running into the media. I had to all but run over them when I came in myself this morning."

House turned around, finally letting the balcony door close. Wilson had his determined look on. Either he was on a mission himself to look out for House today anyway, quite possible after his newspaper delivery that morning, or Cuddy had appointed him. But lunch seemed unavoidable, hungry or not. "Oh, all right. But let's eat in your office." House was already out the door and into the hall while Wilson was still opening his mouth.

The oncologist followed him. House settled onto the couch, and Wilson took the desk chair. "Why are we eating in my office?" Wilson asked.

"Carpet glue," House explained. Wilson's nose twitched in attempted scent memory. "I _know_ you can hardly smell it anymore; Cuddy already told me that." He stared at the Reuben. "I've got to come up with a positive association for carpet glue."

"With a positive association for carpet glue?"

"Assignment from Jensen. Getting ready for the hearing next week. I need to replace each trigger with something similar but positive instead and practice it." Wilson had had the barest of thumbnail sketches of yesterday at the house this morning, because they hadn't really wanted to talk in front of the girls. He knew about the impending hearing next week and obviously about the media being in full cry, but that was all.

"That makes sense," Wilson agreed, "but don't try it while eating. Not that you were yet," he added pointedly. He knew House was too keyed up after his meeting with the prosecutor this morning to be hungry, but talking about triggers would totally kill any chance of a meal, since eating itself to some extent already was one.

House did a differential on the Reuben and finally picked it up off the plate. "Okay, alternative subject while we're eating. Haven't told you about Foreman yet."

Wilson took a bite of his own sandwich. "What about him?"

"You should have seen him yesterday morning. Cuddy and I worked together to set him up to convince him he really needs therapy; great team effort. Got him to blow his top again, only I threw the ball and knocked his aim off when he tried to throw something at her." House felt his stomach twist and put down the sandwich, the glow of success of that throw again suddenly paling against the consequences had it failed.

Wilson was sitting up straight now, his own meal forgotten. "Is she okay?"

House rolled his eyes. "You saw her this morning, remember?" He used the sarcasm to try to deflect his own fear. What if he had missed? How could she have deliberately set herself up like that because she trusted him to do something? What if he hadn't been able to?

"House?" He blinked and focused. "This isn't working as an alternative eating subject. Why don't we pick again?"

House looked at the Reuben, missing only a couple of bites so far. "Right. Well . . . how is life on the couch of remorse?"

Wilson sighed. "Somehow I knew we'd wind up there eventually. You couldn't pick monster trucks or something else as a topic?" House looked at him. "No, of course you couldn't. Not with a candidate like this in the ring. It's . . . absolutely maddening. It's just waiting, and I don't even know if I get a chance at the end of the wait or not."

"Do you want a chance?" House asked, mouth full.

"Of _course_ I want a chance. What do you think I'm still waiting for? If I didn't want a chance, I would have left Monday night."

"You _did_ leave Monday night," House reminded him.

"I mean I would have left and meant it. That time didn't count; I misunderstood. But this is torture. My wives would go into the silent treatment sometimes, but Sandra isn't totally not talking to me. She'll talk if she needs to; there's not that pointed silence, that almost childish 'I'm busy making a point to you right now.' But she doesn't say any more than she has to, either. It's just like there's the Grand Canyon between us. She looks so _hurt._"

"Probably because she's so hurt," House suggested. He remembered his meds and fished out the bottles, shaking out a round of painkillers plus omeprazole.

"I know," Wilson sighed. "Damn it, this was easier when I didn't care as much."

"Well, that's progress," House suggested. "You know that you care now. Got to get progress zipped up all the way, though, if it's going to last."

Wilson flinched. "I know. I _want _this to work. I want to change."

"But you're not sure if you really can change yourself," House finished.

Wilson sighed. "Yeah."

At that moment, there was a light tap on Wilson's office door, and Cuddy opened it. "There you two are. I figured you were probably having lunch somewhere."

"We're in hiding," House said in a dramatic stage whisper. "How are the gutter rats doing?" He shoved in the last two bites of Reuben.

"They had a few very small bites of cheese at a news conference and an official statement, and that will have to hold them for a while. I've also made it clear that they will _not_ be allowed to disrupt hospital operations. I've also reprimanded the receptionist who never should have let them get that out of hand without calling backup anyway. But even though you wound up getting saved by the team, about that scene this morning in the lobby, I'm sorry." In the next second, she nearly knocked his plate with the crumbs over as she sat down beside him on the edge of the couch cushions and kissed him deeply. Dropping the plate himself, House returned the kiss with interest.

They finally broke apart a minute later. Feeling Wilson's slightly wide-eyed look - even for those two, that had been quite a kiss - they turned to face him. "Replacing the triggers," House reminded him. "I'm supposed to replace the triggers with other images instead. Jensen's homework can get fun once in a while." He turned back to Cuddy. "And once again, I'm sorry I was such a jerk yesterday." They were immediately locked into another round.

"How were you . . . never mind," Wilson said. "You were just you, I guess. It's not like you're listening to the question right now anyway." Sitting somewhat removed across the room, the barrier of his desk between him and the successful relationship on the couch, he looked at his best friend and his wife and wished that his own current assignment from Jensen could by any stretch of the imagination be called fun.


	82. AN on Judges

A/N: This is NOT technically a chapter, just a note.

Point came up about picking a judge. This is for anybody else who wondered too, since while you can reply to a review, you can't do so publicly. (A feature that I have asked FF net for a few times; it would be very helpful.)

This is how it works per my retired prosecutor friend.

Technically, no, you can't pick to pad your chances, not as in stating, "I want judge X, because I think he'd be better for my case."

However, on a preliminary hearing (which has a specific time limit and is scheduled on quite short notice into already somewhat-occupied court schedules), you can get the same result if you're inventive.

Example: You want Judge A. You must hold this hearing in the next week.

Judge A has time Monday open on his list but not the rest of the week and leaves Wednesday for vacation.

Judge B has time Tuesday afternoon, Thursday afternoon, or Friday morning.

Judge C has time Thursday morning.

You state to court officials, "Due to my schedule and other obligations, it would be really helpful if we could hold this hearing Monday."

You wind up with Judge A. :)

Per my prosecutor friend, this sort of stuff goes on ALL the time. Now the full trial, which is set months in advance, you haven't got as much maneuverability on because you can't use the existing other cases as easily as an excuse to manipulate scheduling to suit your judicial ends.

Of course, the defense can object or make their own scheduling requests, but in this case, they know they can't challenge the physical evidence on the computer, so they want to go for psychiatric defense, and specifically, they want to get Chandler OUT of the main jail population ASAP and moved to a psych hospital for further in-depth evaluation pending full trial. Chandler doesn't like jail and will like it progressively less as more of his activities get around the grapevine. Sooner the better from their POV on that petition to move him pending trial, which will be heard concurrent with the preliminary hearing. They also don't want to give House extra time to prepare and want to keep the frantic pace on him as it benefits their hopes that he will totally crack up on the stand. Thus, they aren't going to contest having the hearing a few days early. Had Martin said to them, "This Judge would be worse for your strategies," they would have objected, but it would have been presented just as a scheduling preference for Martin's convenience, one which happened to match their own "move out of jail to psych ASAP" desires, and with the new lawyer and Chandler's hyper-control and I will call the shots issues, they quite likely missed some of Martin's ulterior motive here.


	83. Chapter 83

Cuddy opened the door of the conference room, already murmuring an apology as she entered, the last to arrive at today's board meeting. "Sorry I'm late." She was immediately seized herself with an image of kissing House, and judging from the expression on Wilson's face, he was remembering the scene in his office also. Damn reconditioning; it didn't stick with only the intended party. Not that she minded at all thinking about kissing House, who was quite talented in that department, but the board meeting wasn't really the appropriate place to let her mind wander. She sat down at the table. "All right. I went ahead and listed it on the agenda, because I knew we couldn't avoid the subject. First up are the recent activities of Patrick Chandler and their impact on PPTH."

She had already mentally categorized the board into the curious, the professional, and the grudge-holders against House, and looking around the table, she could see the respective expressions taking firm hold. Not surprisingly, Kettleton, a committed long-term grudge-holder, was the first out of the gate. "Unfortunately, this is just another example of how House turns this hospital upside down. He pushes every rule, he invites chaos . . ."

"That's a bit harsh," Matthews spoke up from across the table. "I'm not questioning that House is a handful, but responsibility for the current circus atmosphere seems to fall to Andrews and Patrick Chandler."

"You have to wonder how House treated Chandler to get such as extreme retaliation, though," Kettleton insisted.

"Wait a minute," Wilson protested, jumping in quickly before Cuddy could because he was afraid she'd kill somebody. "Chandler is an accused serial child abuser. House was doing his _job_ as a mandated reporter by contacting CPS, and you surely aren't implying that it would be better if Chandler hadn't been stopped and if the string of children were just continuing as before. That's a very high price to pay for peace at our hospital."

"The original investigation by CPS was inconclusive."

"The original investigation by CPS was dropped after Christopher's death," Cuddy clarified. "They chose to focus on live children, understandably given their workload. It was only after Chandler went after House's reputation that House hired a PI to keep looking into Chandler's background to see if a pattern beyond Christopher could be established - and thank God he did. I can tell you privately that there is evidence, hard physical evidence which the police have right now of at least 12 children. It is _good_ that this monster has been stopped."

"I just wish the hospital didn't come off looking like an incompetent kindergarten in the course of it," Kettleton replied, and a few murmurs of assent were heard.

"And _who_ acted like he was still in kindergarten? Chandler himself, being a bully, Andrews by trying to take out somebody he envied. _House _is probably the one person in all of this, from Christopher's case on, who simply and correctly remained professional and did his own job. He called CPS, and then he let it go and focused completely on the medical aspects. It isn't his fault the media is now camping in our lecture hall."

"This does open up a whole new consideration with Dr. House, though," another board member put in. "Given the background that has been revealed, with incidents all the way up to being nailed to the floor, those are some seriously traumatic events. That would deeply scar _anybody_. Are we sure that Dr. House is psychiatrically stable enough to practice medicine on our staff?"

Cuddy was seething. "What exactly do you think has changed? You can't believe everything you read in the papers, but House's background, whatever it may be, is the same one he has had throughout his professional life, including over a decade of working at this hospital. The only difference today is that you think you know something you didn't before. If he's been a diagnostic genius for years and years, clearly he can work effectively. In fact, in the last two years, complaints against him are down. He is more effective at the moment than he ever has been. Do you know he solved his case today? Had a discussion with the prosecutor this morning about his evidence against Chandler at the upcoming pretrial, then came straight to the hospital from that conference, went to work on his case, _and solved it_. One more life saved today. Does this sound like he's incapable of working efficiently?"

Wilson stepped in again. "I don't see any new reason at all today for PPTH to object to having House on staff. Object to his root personality if you like, but there is _nothing_ new that could possibly be considered a strike against him."

"I'm just worried about the effect of all this on the hospital's image," a board member stated.

"You're worried about the effect on the hospital's image?" Cuddy snapped. "Well, allow me to enlighten you. The reason I was late to this meeting is that I was taking a phone call from a philanthropist. He is the _third_ wealthy donor to contact me today and want to increase his support, specifically citing the current news and what an asset Dr. House is to this hospital." Her eyes were blazing. "Any more questions?"

"Is it all true?" Kettleton asked.

Cuddy opened her notebook. "This is a board meeting, not a gossip session nor, to use your own phrase, an incompetent kindergarten. Does anybody have any other questions related to issues impacting the functioning of this hospital? No? Good. Okay, next item . . ."

(H/C)

Cuddy spent another hour in her office after the board meeting, putting out various paperwork fires. She was relieved to note that during the board meeting, a counselor had called confirming that Foreman had had his first appointment that afternoon and was scheduled to return. Filing that number for further documentation, she continued working. It was almost approaching time where she needed to start packing up to leave for the day; like it or not, her parents were coming in tonight. A tentative tap at her office door broke into her thoughts, and she looked up to see Sandra, still in her nurse's uniform, obviously recently off duty. "Hi, Sandra. Can I do something for you?"

"Maybe the other way around," Sandra replied, entering the office. "Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, and I just wanted to check . . . James hasn't said anything else since we were invited, but I'm not sure if a man would think of it. With everything else that's happened, do you guys really want company tomorrow? I understand perfectly if you just want to tell us to get lost instead. No hard feelings."

Cuddy gave a bittersweet smile. "Unfortunately, you aren't the company that will add the most stress. My family is still coming. Yes, please come on. You two will at least be a little bit of family buffer for Greg. It would be worse without you than with you, assuming you are speaking to each other."

"Oh, we aren't going to start a duel with the table knives during the dinner. We'll put on a good act for everybody; our problems aren't the point here. We'll definitely leave our private life back at the apartment. I just didn't want to stress out House anymore than everything else was already."

"Thank you," Cuddy said. "I really do appreciate the thought. But please, come on."

"Okay, then, we will. See you tomorrow afternoon." Sandra turned to leave the office, and the slight droop of her shoulders - not at the decision but already present from the time she'd entered - prompted Cuddy to ask a gentle question.

"How are you doing, Sandra?"

Sandra turned back with a sigh. "I . . . I'm not sure. Still working through _how_ I feel about it. You knew, didn't you?"

Cuddy nodded. "I am so sorry." She firmly pushed away the thought of House's lips on hers.

"I knew his history, of course. Everybody does. But he said . . ." Sandra shook her head. "He said he just hadn't found the right one yet. That if he did, it would make a difference. And I believed him."

"Don't go looking for some fault in yourself," Cuddy said firmly. "_He_ has a problem here. He needs to deal with it if he ever wants a successful relationship. I'm not calling his previous wives saints - I've known a couple of them - but Wilson definitely has issues of his own I think he's just now realizing."

"I know he's been working on several different things with Jensen, too. Do _you_ think he could ever be totally committed to anybody?"

Cuddy sighed. "I don't know, Sandra. I do know that I've never seen him as upset and guilty as this about any of the previous times, if that's an indication of progress. But whether he's capable of staying faithful, I don't know."

"If he can't, that's it. I'm not going to be a multiple choice answer," the nurse insisted, her chin coming up a little. "If I give him another chance, which I'm not decided on yet, he only gets one. It's over immediately if there's a next time."

"I agree. You've got to have that much respect for yourself. But about Wilson . . . I don't know, Sandra. I think he really cares about you. I think he's trying to work more on his issues. But I don't know if that will be enough. That's not a licensed psychiatric opinion, of course, just a friend."

"Thanks." Sandra looked past Cuddy to the picture of the four of them - House, Cuddy, Rachel, and Abby - on her desk. A smiling family. "He's a neat guy. I even thought he might be _the_ one for me, but I have to ask myself right now if I really know him at all."

"Take as much time as you need. If he's worth it, he'll let you think through things - and he'd be a fool not to. You're definitely the best I've ever seen him with, in my opinion, and I _am_ including Amber in that group."

Sandra gave a wavering smile. "Thanks." The phone on Cuddy's desk rang just then, and Cuddy gave an apologetic smile as she turned toward it. "I'll . . ._we'll_ see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," Cuddy echoed. She picked up the phone and, somewhat distracted, plunged into yet another administrative call.


	84. Chapter 84

Half a Jensen session. Didn't want to break the chapter here, but the weekend is nuts, and I'm trying to keep chipping away on this story. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

"Hello, Dr. House." Jensen stood back, letting House into the inner office and then closing the door. He took a moment to study the diagnostician subtly as he made his way to the coffee pot. He hadn't actually seen House since last Friday, although they had talked daily over the intervening quite-eventful days. House looked tightened up in general, the stress obvious, and he also looked especially ruffled at the moment on top of it all. He gave a brief, wordless nod to Jensen by way of greeting and dropped a manila envelope on the chair Jensen usually used in their sessions, the one closest to the chair with the ottoman. He then went on without waiting for invitation to the far wall and took down the guitar, his fingers grasping it eagerly. He returned to the chairs, sat down in his usual one, and started strumming.

Jensen set down both of their cups of coffee on the small table there, then picked up the manila envelope and opened it. "Mom's therapy notes," House said shortly.

The psychiatrist sat down in his chair and plunged into reading the notes. Everything about House's body language right now was a plea for the world to give him some space, and Jensen left him alone with the guitar, allowing him the several-minute buffer he seemed to need at the moment. House would have already had a conference with the prosecutor today after all, plus no doubt encountering the not-so-gentle tactics of the media. The psychiatrist's attention never wandered off his patient, though, even while he was reading. House gradually seemed to settle somewhat, the music working its usual magic on him, expressing what he couldn't say and reimposing sense and control on his world. Jensen wished that he could testify with a guitar in hand, but no doubt the court wouldn't be receptive to that idea.

Jensen finished the notes and looked back up. House was watching him intently, even while playing. "This could be worse," Jensen started. "These are your mother's notes, not yours, and that shows. It's a general picture, but in terms of specific details, they're limited." House flinched, and Jensen changed subjects, giving him another minute before hitting the main topic for the day. "A couple of other things we need to talk about first before we get down to you testifying." House relaxed minutely, appreciating the gap, even though he knew as well as Jensen did that they had no choice on the primary subject today. "First of all, how much do you have left of that bottle of Ativan I gave you?"

House fished it out of his pocket and tossed it over, then picked up his cup and took several swallows while the psychiatrist was counting pills. "This wasn't a full bottle in the first place, just some I kept in the office in case I needed it for a patient during a session. I'm going to write you a refill so you'll have plenty available, and we'll just leave that as a p.r.n. for the moment." He got up leisurely to retrieve a prescription pad from his desk drawer, once again killing time, wrote the prescription, then tore that sheet off and returned to offer it to House. House stuffed it into his pocket. He was still holding the guitar, though its voice was silenced at the moment.

Jensen sat down again and took a drink of his own coffee. "Second," he said and paused long enough for House to look at him. He wanted to get a clear reading on House's body language on this one. "Would you like me to come to the hearing next week?"

He was glad he'd been watching closely, because eyes, body language, and words went in three different directions. The first expression in the eyes before House shielded them was always the most telling, and that one was a clear affirmative. Yes, he definitely would appreciate having Jensen there. The body language was somewhat agreeing but also a mixture of worried and annoyed, the worry most likely for taking up yet more of the psychiatrist's time, he thought, and the annoyance more overlay from John House, considering it a weakness in himself that he wanted others there and didn't feel up to it alone. The words were a straight protest. "You're busy. I've snarled up your schedule enough lately."

Jensen shook his head. "Let's get one thing clear. You are not an inconvenience to work with; you give back far more than you think you do. But also, remember the current circumstances. I would take the next month off my job without pay to help put Patrick away and not for one second resent that or count it lost time. There's also something I will never forget out of working with you through this whole crisis, and it's not the amount of time you took." He paused to get House's curiosity on the hook.

"What's that?" A puzzle was irresistible, even when House was both worried and annoyed.

"Your first reaction when you met Patrick, way back at the wedding, was concern for my daughter. Even when you had nothing more than instinct to go on, you were worried for her safety. I appreciated that at the time - and after discovering hard details about Patrick, I appreciate it even more now. Thank God she wasn't in danger - but she _could_ have been, and you could have made the difference with her. The only reason you spoke up that first night was out of concern for her. I won't forget that."

House considered, then nodded. "Okay. Yes, I'd like to have you there. There's a chance some people would figure out you're my shrink, but given that my childhood is probably on World News Tonight, I think we're past worrying about telling people something new. But how does your family feel about it?"

"Which brings me down to my third initial point. I'm off tomorrow and Friday for Thanksgiving."

House looked down. "I hadn't forgotten." Perfectly true; he'd been waffling as part of his thoughts driving up between dreading if he had to call a total stranger on coverage, determination that he damned well _wouldn't_ call a stranger on coverage no matter what, and annoyance again that a mere two days out of contact with his psychiatrist loomed as any sort of potential obstacle.

"I wanted to tell you, you can call me on my cell during those two days if you need to."

House's head snapped up in surprise. "But your family . . . _no_. That's what tore up your marriage in the first place."

"This was Melissa's idea, not mine," Jensen clarified. "She said that you could. _Only_ you. Just if you need to. Nobody else from my patients. I'll still have a nice couple of days of break with my family."

"So she knows now."

"The basic fact, yes. Not complete details. And she knows about the hearing next week and that you'll have to testify."

House nodded. He really couldn't object to Jensen telling a few things to his wife. The man probably had been ready for a therapist himself after some of their recent conversations. Besides, as he'd said, total strangers on the street knew about his past at this point. "This is _her_ idea?"

"Yes. She said that while I was in the process of promising her I'd be totally away from the job those two days. She understands what she's doing, but in her words, she'd like a new chance to be supportive when she should be, just as much as I'd like a new chance to not let the job take over my whole life. And she wants Patrick in prison just as much as we do. These are special circumstances." House was watching him, looking for any hedging. There was none. "Call me during those two days if you need to," Jensen repeated.

House let out a sigh, one small weight among the many on his shoulders rolling off. "Okay. But only if I need to."

"Agreed. Just as a reminder, though, any time you're thinking that a new strategy must be implemented in the next five minutes to deal with all this, that's a sign that you need to."

House flinched, remembering Cuddy's statement last night, that he had dragged his whole family into hell. "I'll try. I'm sure Lisa will help me remember that, too."

"Good." Jensen took another swallow of his coffee, then, having stalled past all other available urgent topics, reached for the therapy notes again. "How are things going since last night?"

House picked the guitar back up and resuming playing.


	85. Chapter 85

A/N: Tough chapter to write this morning after a very hard day yesterday. It would be this chapter I was at; bittersweet but fitting. I'm not sure if I will get the story finished posted by the end of February or not. Will do my best, but there are more important things than fanfiction. Thanks for reading.

(H/C)

House started out softly, his eyes and his attention superficially at least on the music. "I didn't talk to Lisa last night. Guess I pretty much passed out instead. We talked some this morning, but she was acting like yesterday didn't even matter."

"It doesn't, to her," Jensen assured him. "All she needed to know was that there was another way. That helped her concern over you, which was the root of all that was bothering her."

House shook his head slightly. "It _should_ have kept bothering her more, though. She said I had dragged my whole family into hell. That shouldn't be something you just say, 'better now,' and move on."

Jensen abruptly realized a point he had missed in everything last night, the connotations of the word 'hell' for House. "She was just using a phrase, Dr. House. It wasn't meant literally, not like your experiences last year. She wasn't comparing you to your father."

"That's what she said this morning." House was still looking a bit dubious. Jensen decided that the best thing to do with that point was to move on to the reassurance of Cuddy's support the rest of today instead of dissecting her explosion last night further. Actions speak louder than words, after all, even shouted words.

"What else did you talk about? Have you come up with any replacement triggers so far?"

House jumped gratefully at the shift in topic. He didn't really want to stay stuck in yesterday himself; he simply wasn't accustomed to leaving past mistakes behind and moving on, and he still wasn't sure how to at times. John House, of course, had never let anything go. "We're working on it." Jensen had a private, hidden smile for that 'we.' "We've got two good ones so far, I think. One of them we're already rehearsing; one we'll practice probably starting tonight. The ice baths - I got to thinking what would happen if we poured one bag of ice into the hot tub while it was already filled up."

Jensen let the smile show that time. "That's a wonderful idea. Complete antithesis to the old image, the new warmth of family and love overpowering the old memories. That is _exactly_ what I was talking about. What's the other one you've got so far?"

"I'm sorry." House tightened up a bit saying it, but he was specifically trying to think about the new image, not the old. "Lisa came up with that one. She was about to apologize to me for something, and then she got that great 'ticked off at something and making a point' spark in her eyes, and she said she was sorry instead and kissed me. Did it about four times running."

Jensen nodded. "That's great. Sort of an anti physical assault. You get a loving embrace instead of pushed down the stairs."

"We've been practicing that one a few times through the day, too." House grinned himself in memory. "That one requires less stage setting than the hot tub."

"Can you see how powerful and effective this method can be?"

House nodded slowly. "It's already helping a bit, with the sorry thing. I really think this might make a difference."

"It will," Jensen promised. "This is a far better choice for you than desensitization."

"But I'm still missing some triggers that they have," House stated, his grin fading. "Got to come up with more."

"You will, Dr. House. You've already got these two, plus being out in the cold - I really think Rachel's snowman is a good choice there, unless you think of something better. The best new associations here will be ones you come up with - or Dr. Cuddy, who is a kind of extension of you at this point, as with any successful marriage. Okay, from these notes, we have those three struck off the list. That leaves us with the general fact of beatings and abuse, but I really think they'll pick the most specific incidents to try to use. A specific memory is far more powerful emotionally than a general state. The big two specific triggers remaining are the threat against your mother and carpet glue."

House shuddered, his hands faltering momentarily on the strings. "I'm totally stuck with those. I can't think of _anything_ that might be similar but positive."

"Keep trying. You're already halfway there, focusing on the specific incidents. Something will come to you."

"How can you be sure?" House challenged.

"I trust your mind. Think of it like a case, where you are still looking for answers. Is there _ever_ a point that you just give up on a case?"

"No," House replied firmly. "But sometimes I get the answer too late."

"That isn't going to happen here," Jensen assured him.

House struck a slightly annoyed chord. "How the hell can you promise that?"

"Think of the image of the ice in the hot tub, melting. It's melting because the present and the future _are _stronger than the past. What you have working on your side, not only your own analytical genius but the support system surrounding you, is stronger than the hate and manipulation on the other side. Given this mental challenge of finding new associations, I'm sure you will be able to come up with an answer in each case."

House analyzed the psychiatrist's confidence for a moment, then jumped tracks slightly. "What about when it isn't just a mental challenge? What about on cross-examination?"

"That will be harder," Jensen admitted. "But you can do it. I don't dispute that it will be a very difficult experience, though, harder than thinking of the new associations, because the other side will be an active presence there trying to trip you up. But I really do think you can successfully get through this."

House strummed the guitar for a minute, a mournful, nameless blues tune, then shifted tracks again. "Talked to the prosecutor this morning."

"How did that go?"

"It wasn't as bad as I thought - but he was trying to be nice. It's to his advantage to try not to freak me out."

"True, but I'm sure he was impressed with your testimony, too."

House's eyes were locked on the strings. "He was trying to tell me that people with PTSD usually make strong witnesses."

"They do," Jensen confirmed. "I've watched several patients testify; it's quite empowering to them." House looked up quickly at that, and Jensen read the expression unerringly. "Yes, Dr. House, I _have_ been to court in support of patients before. Several times. When are you going to realize that you are not, as you once put it, the most 'screwed-up' patient I have ever met? Nor are you the only one I have offered to go to court with. You aren't alone, neither in past experiences nor in legal obstacles arising from them."

House stopped playing for a minute. "Dad always . . ." He trailed off.

"Since when was he right on _anything_?" Jensen challenged.

"The prosecutor said that this might almost be like the chance I never had to face him in court."

"Again, he was right." Jensen was grateful that this prosecutor seemed to be fairly experienced. "But the most important thing above all to remember next week in court is that you are _not_ there alone. Dr. Cuddy will be there. I will be there. I'm sure Dr. Wilson will come as your friend. Your support system will be right there, and anytime you want, you can look over and see it. And that itself is powerful testimony against your father. He told you you would always be alone, that you would always fail in your relationships, and right there, you will have visible proof that he's wrong. It's like the ice melting in the hot tub - that is really a _great_ image to latch onto. The present is stronger than the past, and it can overcome it."

House paused for a minute, then said softly, "Thanks for warning me about the media."

Jensen gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'm assuming that you did encounter them today."

House nodded. "They were in the lobby of the hospital. It was . . . like being _attacked_. Fortunately between Lisa and the team calling, I escaped. She did a news conference herself and released a statement. But then . . ." He resumed playing the guitar. "On the way up here, I stopped at a gas station to stretch my leg for a minute and grab a Coke. The people in front of me in line recognized me from the news."

"That's what happened right before you got here," Jensen realized. House looked up, surprised. "I knew _something_ had, something more immediate than just the general situation. You looked like a cat with your fur rubbed the wrong way when you first came in."

House shook his head in disbelief. "They were _thanking_ me. Trying to make it seem like a big deal."

"For those children, it _is_ a big deal," Jensen reminded him. "You have made a permanent impact in their lives. Because of you, they will get the opportunity _right now_ to start healing, without having to let the wound fester for more years."

"But I didn't want people in a store recognizing me. Hell, they even insisted on paying for my Coke."

"Did you take them up on it?" Jensen asked, curious.

"Yes," House admitted. "Free food is free food, and it was faster to escape if I'd agreed than if I'd argued. But . . ."

"In everything they said and did, I realize it made you uncomfortable, but was anything said _against _you? Were they belittling you for your past and calling you a failure?"

"No," House replied. His eyes were on his hands again, watching the guitar strings.

"I realize this is going to be very uncomfortable for you, but even the media with their relentless tactics is _not_ going to be presenting you as at fault in this story. They will admire what you've overcome and what you've done, just like those people in the store. Your father was _wrong_, Dr. House. People are not going to ridicule you or pity you. It's not like his prediction about funerals." Jensen saw House's expression twitch. "What?"

"Funerals. I . . . went to a funeral yesterday. Tried to, anyway."

"Dr. Cuddy said that," Jensen told him, not specifying when. "What happened?" The psychiatrist had been trying to stay away from the topic of yesterday's disastrous desensitization efforts, trying to stick with the positive new strategy, but since House himself had brought this specific point up, Jensen thought there might be more to it.

"I couldn't stay. Bolted out part way when some of the people turned around; Lisa said it was because _she_ was too loud. But the team called soon as I got outside, so I stood out there having a differential with them, and the funeral ended before I left. We were still outside on the front steps when all the people came out, and one of them called me by name." House stopped the music again, looking up to the psychiatrist. "I'd picked this funeral off listings in the obits online. Didn't have any idea whose funeral; anybody's would have done. But would you believe, the woman happened to be a former patient of mine. Her daughter chased me down outside the church, and she was thanking me for giving her more years with her mother. Even said it was _thoughtful_ of me to come to the funeral. The whole time, Lisa and I were standing there thinking, 'Who are you?'"

Jensen grinned. "But your influence in her life, and even at that funeral, was a positive one."

"Accidentally," House insisted.

"No. You may not have realized whose funeral this was, but your saving of her mother's life was hardly accidental. That's a perfect example of what a _good_ difference you have made to people. Yet more proof that your father was wrong. Have you been saying that like I recommended?"

"I've been a little bit distracted the last few days," House reminded him.

"Go ahead and say it."

"My father was wrong," House recited dutifully.

"And what else?"

"I am strong. He was wrong, and I am strong. Which actually rhymes; maybe I could set it to music. Satisfied?"

"Yes. Are you still hearing his voice?"

"Sometimes. Yesterday, he was laughing at me. And yes, he actually laughed at me when I was a kid; did it all the time. It's just a memory, not a hallucination."

"When is the hearing next week?"

"Monday." House looked down at the silent guitar again.

"Okay. I'll be there. I'd like to see you again Saturday, too. Is Dr. Cuddy's family still coming for the next two days?"

House sighed. "Yes. Her parents get in tonight. Several other extended relatives coming tomorrow for the meal. Her parents will be the last ones to leave, too, late tomorrow or maybe Friday."

"If it gets too overwhelming, go outside and build another snowman with Rachel and remind yourself that you aren't shut out in the cold anymore."

House grinned suddenly. "She wanted to build a snow cat last Sunday. White, like Belle."

Jensen smiled. "That sounds like her. Take a picture of it. Someday, this snow will be a pleasant memory, not just a trigger replacement."

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" House asked, suddenly curious.

"Mark is coming tonight with his family, and Melissa's parents are coming tomorrow. Not everybody you saw at the wedding. The whole extended crew doesn't turn up for everything, fortunately."

"So Patrick's not invited," House stated. "Not that he could come anyway. Wonder what they have on Thanksgiving in jail?"

"Nothing near as good as what we've got. I was thinking before you came in that this Thanksgiving even with Patrick's activities is an improvement over last year." House looked surprised. "Last year, you had just gotten out of the hospital yourself and were still struggling, and Abby was still in the NICU with an uncertain prognosis. This year, your family is whole and healthy. Even with Patrick, that's something to be grateful for."

House nodded slowly. "Yes. I hadn't thought about it that way." He looked at his watch. "We're running way over. Reading those notes took a while."

Jensen accepted the curtain falling on this session and stood up. "I'll see you again Saturday. Would 10:00 work?"

"That's fine." House set the guitar aside and lurched up to his feet. Jensen carefully didn't pick up the instrument himself, which might have been read as disapproval that House had simply taken it without permission.

"You can call me, remember. Call if you need to."

"I will." House returned the guitar to its holder on the wall. "See you Saturday, Jensen."

Jensen handed the therapy notes back to him. "Good night, Dr. House."


	86. Chapter 86

Cuddy sighed as she pulled into the driveway and parked alongside her parents' car. They were early. Well, of _course_, they were early. She wouldn't be surprised if they had started out first thing this morning after watching the morning news or reading the paper. At least House wouldn't be here for a few hours yet; she had a chance to remind them of the ground rules for the upcoming couple of days.

Yes, there they were in the living room when she opened the door, Susan holding and cooing over Abby, Robert having something shown to him by Rachel, and both of them looking somewhat tense and distracted in spite of the allure of the grandkids. "Lisa!" Susan stood up with Abby still in her arms and came over to give her daughter a one-armed hug, with Abby nearly flip-flopping out of her grasp to reach her mother.

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad." Cuddy safely retrieved her daughter and gave her a kiss. "Hi, Abby."

"Mama." Abby wrapped both arms around her, snuggling up contentedly.

Rachel galloped up with her usual enthusiasm and latched onto a leg. "Mama. Gramma . . . Belle." She dissolved into laughter.

Cuddy knelt to get on eye level with her. "What about Belle?"

"Belle . . ." Rachel hissed, a remarkably accurate demonstration, and then even somehow by body language conveyed a bushed-up tail before running off into the hall. Abby laughed.

"Your cat doesn't think much of company, apparently," Robert said, coming over, and Cuddy stood up to get a hug from him.

"Not many cats do. She'll probably vanish for the whole day tomorrow." And House might join her now and then in cat warp, wherever that elusive spot was, for a break. At least, Cuddy hoped he would retreat at intervals.

"Abby has grown so much," Susan exclaimed. "Rachel, too, of course." Cuddy read the change of subject coming and credited her mother with waiting at least that first minute to ask. "Where is Greg?"

"Dada!" Rachel heard his name and galloped back down the hall, looking around hopefully as if he might have materialized in the living room.

"He had an appointment. He'll be home just after 7:00."

"Lisa, have you read the paper today? And the news at noon was . . ."

"_Yes_, I've read the paper. Haven't seen the news, but I'm sure we were on it." Marina came out of the kitchen right then with her purse, and Cuddy turned to her. Even Marina looked worried. "Marina, thank you so much. Enjoy your four-day weekend."

Marina touched her arm, leaning close for emphasis. "If you need anything, Dr. Cuddy, _anything_, just let me know. I can help you with the girls if you need somebody. The weekend doesn't matter. Call me if you need me."

"I will," Cuddy assured her. Marina still hovered anxiously, taking time to put her coat on in slow motion, kissing Abby and then tracking down Rachel, who was zooming around the living room practicing hissing at people. Finally, the nanny had stalled as long as she could and left, although her last glance back was still full of concern.

Cuddy sighed as the door closed and then turned to face her parents. "Okay, a couple of ground rules. First of all, _yes_, the entire world knows, at least as much as the media does. Thank God the media hasn't actually got a copy of Blythe's therapy notes and only has the details in the Bellinger legal paperwork like you guys got. Second, we are _not_ going to be talking about this in front of Greg, and that goes for everybody else coming tomorrow, too. I'm sure they've all seen the news. Mom, you can call down the list tonight. The first person who makes a big deal about everything and stresses him out gets kicked out of the house, and I don't care if we're in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner and I have to drag them out bodily."

"Of course, Lisa. We understand." Susan still looked concerned, and so did Robert, unusual for her father. He didn't often let emotions show. House was on good terms with both of them, but Robert had still maintained a reserve, unlike Susan, who was won over irrevocably when House brought his piano to the wedding. Like most fathers, he had wanted absolute proof that this man was good enough for his daughter. Looking at him now, Cuddy realized that finally, he had found it.

Rachel raced back up and hissed at them, causing her sister to break out laughing again. Cuddy smiled - you could hardly _help_ smiling on hearing Abby's golden laughter - but she tried to make her tone serious. "Rachel, it's not polite to hiss at people."

"Belle . . ." Rachel protested immediately.

"Belle is a cat. She gets special privileges." Cuddy wished she could be a cat for a few moments, just to adequately express her opinion physically, with claws out and shredding, to both the media and Patrick Chandler.

"Dada?" Abby asked, looking around.

Cuddy kissed her daughter again. "No, I'm sorry. He'll be home later, after bedtime."

"No!" Rachel protested. She turned away and retreated back up the hall.

Robert's attention suddenly sharpened, and he went over to the TV and turned the volume up. A picture of Chandler was on the screen. "And in the latest update in the case of Patrick Chandler, today Pennsylvania became the most recent state to join the line waiting to prosecute him. Authorities allege that one of Chandler's victims lived in Philadelphia." The whole family, except Rachel, shifted to see the TV more clearly. "The public remains horrified as more details emerge of Chandler's alleged actions. There are apparently at least twelve children in his wake. Ann Bellinger understandably was too upset to talk to the media today, but asking around his latest neighborhood revealed a chillingly normal picture of Chandler." There followed a couple of brief comments from neighbors, the standard shock, couldn't-believe-it, seemed-like-a-normal-guy that seems to follow the revelation of many horrible crimes. Cuddy, realizing what the defense probably would be, was cringing. Yes, she could easily see how a slick defense lawyer could use testimony like this.

"How could people never know?" Susan wondered.

Robert shook his head, and his tone was annoyed. "Ted Bundy was a thoroughly charming man, according to almost everybody who knew him. If it hadn't been for Greg . . ."

"Dada?" Rachel raced back down the hall, then brightened up as she saw the TV. "Dada!"

Sure enough, a picture of House was on the screen. "More details are also emerging about the hero of this story, the Princeton doctor who blew the whistle on Chandler. Dr. Gregory House is described as a genius at his job, shunning public acclaim but routinely finding diagnoses that others have missed." The clip from the lobby with House at the elevator earlier that day played, followed by Cuddy's statement.

"Mama." Rachel scrambled a little closer to the TV, at rapt attention.

"His own background would of course make him especially sensitive to the possibility of abuse in children he encountered. For a closer look at this man, a news team from a local station in Kentucky today realized who better to ask than his mother."

Cuddy groaned, afraid to watch, more afraid to look away. Susan moved closer and touched her arm in sympathetic dread. Blythe appeared on the screen, standing on the front porch of her house. "I have only one public statement to make," she stated. "I am _so_ proud of my son, as I have always been. Any further comment you'll have to find elsewhere."

Susan stared. Cuddy relaxed. "I don't believe it. For once in her life, she . . ."

Robert shushed them urgently. "Another family member was more willing to give us an inner look at this complicated man. His sister-in-law, Lyla Cuddy, gave an interview to the press this afternoon."

Lyla's face filled the screen, clearly enjoying her moment in the spotlight. "What's he like? Well, he is a genius, of course, but eccentric, too. No, I never realized his own background, but looking back, I can see it. There were always things he didn't want to talk about, things that obviously were too painful to him. Definitely things that still bother him today. He can be challenging to deal with at times, but still, it is _such_ an honor to have him in the family."

The scene shifted back to the news studio. Cuddy literally growled, a sound emerging deep within her, finally erupting into words. "I am going to _kill_ her." She turned a quick circle, looking for a weapon.

Robert stood up emphatically, pulled out his cell phone, and stalked off to the guest bedroom with a heavy tread. The door slammed shut behind him. Susan tried to comfort Cuddy. "Let him deal with her, Lisa. You know how he can be." Yes, Cuddy definitely did. Earning her father's approval, or trying to, had been a competition between her and Lyla throughout her growing-up. Never any abuse, not like John House, but Robert could convey the crushing weight of "I'm disappointed in you" with ruthless finality, and Cuddy at least was still sensitive to it, even in adult years.

"I'm still going to kill her when he's done," Cuddy vowed. "That little bitch. She doesn't even _like_ Greg. Just wanted her fifteen minutes of fame." Cuddy shook her head. "Back when she was here a year ago, before we got engaged, she was flaunting her boyfriend in front of me and never lost a chance to tell me how far Greg fell short."

"I know. She tried it with us, too. Then when her relationship with Bill fell apart and you went on to get married, she was _pouting_. Like a kid. We've tried to cut her some slack; she is our daughter, after all, and she had lost her own pregnancy. Seeing you pregnant with Abby must have been hard. But I can't believe she would try to profit off . . . _this._"

Rachel, getting bored with the remainder of the nightly news, turned back to remind her mother and grandmother. "Mama, Dada on TV!"

Cuddy looked at Rachel's bright, innocent face, clearly considering tonight's news a good thing, an undiluted honor for her father, and Cuddy felt tears welling up suddenly. Such poignant innocence against Patrick's horrific actions. "Yes, Rachel. I saw."

The bedroom door opened a few minutes later, and Robert emerged. No shouting had been heard. Her father had never needed it. "Told her what I thought. Don't think she'll talk to the press again," he said with finality. "But if she does, she's out of our will. And she knows that."

Cuddy knew how materialistic her sister was. She looked over at Susan, similarly concerned with the outward trappings of life, and Susan was nodding firmly. "I agree."

"I'm still going to kill her if she ever gives me a chance to," Cuddy emphasized. "She'd better stay far away from me, and that _includes_ staying off my TV." She squared her shoulders. "Okay, Mother, we have some phone calls to make before people get here tomorrow. Anybody who wants to come see Abby is going to abide by my rules."

Rachel looked from one to the other of them, wondering why everybody was so serious. Turning back to the TV, she stared at it, as if by hopes alone, she could put House once again on the screen.


	87. Chapter 87

Very brief update, again didn't mean to leave it there, but all I had time for. More anti-trigger practice coming up soon!

(H/C)

Cuddy closed the nursery door softly, then kicked off her shoes to deaden the brisk click of her stride and padded back down the hall to the living room. Robert looked up as she came in. "Girls asleep?"

"Finally. They're both keyed up to the moon tonight, between you two coming and wanting to wait up for Greg. I can't imagine what nap time tomorrow will be like." She collapsed into the recliner with a sigh and rubbed one foot across the other, working out some of the tension of the day. "Thanks for talking to Lyla, Dad. I'm still going to decapitate her myself if I get a chance, but you probably did save me from total volcanic eruption in front of the girls."

Robert gave a short nod of acknowledgment. "She deserved it. I can't believe she made a statement; probably called the press herself. Talking among the family is one thing, but talking to _them_." He shook his head. "Not that she's going to be in a hurry to talk to anybody again about this, I think, family included." He looked over at Cuddy assessingly. "He's good for you, Lisa. I haven't seen you in several months."

Cuddy sighed. "Right now isn't really a fair assessment of my current life, but yes, he's good for me." It felt odd to be sitting here having a serious conversation with her father. There hadn't been many in life. The simplicity of Robert's statement, for once not adding or subtracting points from a mental balance sheet but simply stating a fact, touched her deeply.

Susan came out of the kitchen just then. "Dinner's almost ready. We should be able to eat as soon as Greg gets here." The girls, of course, had been fed earlier.

Cuddy looked at her watch, then looked at it again accusingly, the concern already rooted deep within her at the moment putting out a new leaf. "He should be here soon. It's later than I thought it was; the girls took a while." Actually he should have already been here. Her eyes drifted to the piano.

Two wrists turned as both of her parents automatically checked their watches. "Maybe he got delayed somewhere," Robert suggested.

"I'm sure that's it. He'll be here any minute."

Susan noted Cuddy's feet right then, bare except for pantyhose. "Lisa, you ought to have on socks or slippers or something. It's November!"

Easier to submit than argue. Cuddy stood up and headed back to the bedroom. When she emerged a few minutes later in a comfortable lounging outfit and house shoes instead of her work clothes, she looked in on the girls briefly - finally deeply asleep - then came back into the living room. Susan was standing over by the piano now, studying it. Robert was flipping restlessly through the channels on the TV. "You two can go ahead and eat if you want," Cuddy offered.

She got a bilateral denial. "I'll go turn off the stove," Susan stated firmly. "We can always heat it back up." She disappeared into the kitchen, then returned a minute later. Cuddy had drifted over to the window, the one replacing the window House had broken, and was staring out into the empty snow. "Maybe you could call him," Susan suggested.

Cuddy pressed her lips together, thinking. "Not quite yet." She hated to bother him, hated to make him feel like she was hovering. She also didn't want him to know that he had worried her. Maybe he had driven back from Middletown the scenic way (in the dark in November, her mind skeptically added). Perhaps he had just needed space for a while. She could hardly blame him.

Unfortunately, her body language was conveying more than she realized, and while Robert let it go in silence, Susan was unable to. With any subject that caught her attention, she was a terrier, and she genuinely cared about House. "You said he had an appointment. Are you sure he made it? What if he was in a wreck on the way? Maybe we should call the hospitals."

"If he hadn't shown up for that appointment, I already would have known about it," Cuddy stated firmly. There was no way, under the current circumstances, that Jensen would drop the ball like that. She knew how concerned he was about House right now himself.

"You could call whoever and see if he was there," Susan suggested. "Or you could call him."

"Not _yet_," Cuddy snapped. "Didn't you hear me the first time?" Susan started to rise to the tone, then caught herself, letting it go. Robert was the silent spectator. Yes, _this_ was familiar, echoes of her own childhood. Only not quite, she realized. Susan had, unbelievably, backed down from pushing a point instead of getting stubborn, and while Robert was watching in silence, he still looked concerned himself, not frozen, not disapproving. Even parents, Cuddy realized, are still capable at times of growth. "I'm sorry," she said softly, and thought half wistfully, half worriedly again of House.

Susan met the apology, another change from the routine. "I didn't mean to push you, Lisa. I know how much stress you're dealing with right now. I was just worried about him."

"I am, too," Cuddy admitted, "but believe me, there is _no_ chance that he missed that appointment and I wasn't told. He's probably just driving back slowly and thinking." She hoped. She looked at her watch. "I don't want to make him feel guilty."

"Sorry," Robert repeated, holding out the change of subject between the two women. "You said he doesn't like that phrase. Why?"

Cuddy sighed. "It goes back to when his father broke his arm once. He 'apologized' while doing it, to prove to Greg that words don't mean a thing. There's a whole lot more than was in those papers, but leave him what little privacy he's got left. _I_ don't even know everything there is." She thought again of some of the props bought yesterday, the ones still mysteries to her.

"Wish I could have five minutes with the bastard," Robert said, and Cuddy looked at him, shocked to hear the low fury beneath that ever-controlled tone.

"You'll have to stand in line. If he weren't dead, I would have gone to kill him myself long since." Cuddy paced a restless circle of the living room, coming to a halt with one hand on the ebony surface of the piano. "Just . . . leave it alone. It doesn't feel right talking about him when he isn't here. Not that we're going to when he _is _here, either. Not about this."

"Of course," Susan agreed. "It's just hard to believe _any_ parent could be such a monster."

"The world's full of them, unfortunately. Look at the news." Cuddy flinched, remembering tonight's version of the news.

"This Chandler," Robert said. "Greg's going to testify against him?"

Cuddy nodded. "Probably several times before we're all done, with all the states that will be involved. There's a preliminary hearing in Princeton Monday."

"Monday?" Susan's eyebrows went up. "That seems awfully soon."

"Apparently, a preliminary hearing within 10 days is one of the rights of the accused. We wouldn't want to deprive Chandler of any of his rights now, would we?" She banged one hand down on the keyboard, then jumped guiltily as the piano protested. She heard House mentally objecting, coming to the defense of his beloved instrument, and was glad for a moment he hadn't been here to see that, then wished that he _had_ been. She'd take being scolded. She looked at her watch again. 8:30. He was now about an hour and a half late. Susan looked at her own watch again, opened her mouth to make the suggestion, then closed it.

At 8:45, Cuddy couldn't take it anymore. She whipped out her cell phone and hit speed dial one as both of her parents came to attention, not even pretending not to eavesdrop.

He answered on the second ring. "Hi."

He sounded tense, but at least the background noise was clearly car on the highway, not an ER somewhere or a random late night funeral. "Hi, Greg. Where are you?"

"Almost to the exit to Princeton. I'll be home soon."

"Take your time. I just wondered when we needed dinner ready." It was a lame excuse, and he knew it. She heard the guilt ricochet around his tone.

"I was pretty late leaving Jensen's - he read Mom's notes completely before we even started to talk. Then I . . . um. . . had an errand that came up that I had to do tonight before the holiday, and . . ."

"It's _okay_, Greg," she assured him, slicing across the explanation, although she wondered what errand had only come up after Jensen. A legitimate errand; there was no extra guilt in his tone there on top of the general guilt this whole call was dumping on him. Some embarrassment, tension, not something he wanted to think about himself, but he wasn't trying to hide something from her. "I understand. We'll see you soon, okay?"

"See you. I love you," he added.

"I love you, too. Now hang up and get both hands back on the wheel."

"And who's the one who made me take one off?" he challenged. "Bye, Lisa."

"Bye." She hung up, then faced her parents. "He's okay. He just got delayed."

"When does he want dinner?" Susan asked, going for the practical aspect.

"Well, assuming that he was speaking literally when he said he was almost to Princeton - safe assumption - probably about 15 or 20 minutes."

Her mother disappeared back kitchenward. "I'll check on everything and see what will need reheating."

Silence descended in the living room, but a more comfortable silence than a lot of the ones of her childhood. She looked at her father, sitting there on the couch with remote in hand, although he wasn't paying attention to the TV. Suddenly Cuddy was overwhelmed with a rush of unexpected gratitude for her father. He had his faults, but there were far, _far_ worse parents in the world. "Thank you, Dad," she said abruptly.

He looked at her, his eyes sad, and didn't even question the context. "You're welcome." He looked toward a picture of House with the girls. "He's a good father."

It wasn't a question, but Cuddy answered it. "Yes. He's a wonderful father."

Robert nodded and didn't say anything else at the moment. Cuddy drifted back over to the windows and looked out, watching for the familiar headlights, waiting for her husband.


	88. Chapter 88

It had indeed been quite late when House left Jensen's office. He hadn't realized it until looking at his watch at the end, but in retrospect, he could see that Jensen had, in fact, been deliberately dragging his feet at times, especially in the beginning, giving House a chance to settle into talking. That annoyed House - not at Jensen but at himself, that he had required such careful handling and hadn't been able to take the usual timing of a session. At least it had been Jensen's last appointment of the day, so while he had interfered with the psychiatrist's getting home to his family, there wasn't yet another patient waiting in the wings still to be done. Annoyed with himself, House pulled out a bit too suddenly on the road from the parking garage and pointed the car toward home. A minute later, he realized that he was once again channeling his father in his annoyance by thinking - yes, in those exact words - that he needed to toughen up, and that annoyed him further. Damn it, he almost wished he were back in his childhood, just so he could thoroughly kill the bastard, and far earlier in the course of events. Surely even a brilliant 4-year-old could have come up with something, using strategy in lieu of strength. House was tired of dealing with the repercussions of his father. All he wanted right then was to go home to Cuddy and the girls, even if they were asleep already, and have a normal evening acting like John House, Patrick Chandler, and the media had never happened.

That reminded him almost immediately that Cuddy's parents were due in tonight and would be waiting for him. And whose fault was that? Cuddy had been on the point of canceling Thanksgiving last night, as had Susan clearly since she had called to inquire, when he had snatched the phone in his absurd desensitization quest of yesterday and told them himself to come on, the more the merrier. He sighed and drummed his fingers against the wheel as he paused at a stoplight. So instead of Cuddy waiting at home, he had Cuddy plus in-laws, and tomorrow, many more would be coming. Of course, Cuddy would no doubt have laid down firm ground rules, so his past wouldn't be the main topic over the Thanksgiving meal, but there would still be the looks, and everybody would still know. He sighed and thought that Ativan might come in useful sooner than he had hoped.

That brought another problem suddenly to mind. He needed to fill the prescription Jensen had given him. Since Jensen was not locally known around the Princeton area, he could run into obstacles filling it in Princeton. A prescription for a controlled substance by an out-of-state doctor might well raise any pharmacist's eyebrows. At the least, it would lead to extra calls, verifications, and delays. He could fill it at PPTH, where they knew him and might be more inclined to accept it, but walking into PPTH, which had been such a focus of Patrick's activities, and asking for Ativan from the staff who worked with him every day was too much to stomach. No, his best option was to fill the prescription in Middletown, on Jensen's local turf. A pharmacy doesn't expect to know every patient personally, and people do get prescriptions sometimes while on vacation or traveling. House's ID would suffice for his end, but the pharmacist _does_ expect to be familiar with the prescribing doctor, particularly with certain classes of drugs. With another sigh, House turned into a Walgreens ahead.

The traffic in the store surprised him, and he realized again that tomorrow was Thanksgiving. Here were all the pre-holiday shoppers urgently picking up antacid or Pepto (or Ativan) before the holiday to make it through the coming onslaught of family. House stood in line and presented the prescription. The man at the drop-off window studied it, and then the eyes widened a little at the name, and he looked back up quickly at House. He said nothing, maintaining confidentiality, but House knew he had been recognized from the news. Yes, here was the abused doctor who was all over the news, filling a prescription for Ativan to help him deal with things. "It'll be about 15 minutes," the worker said. "There's a bench over there." Great, so he was not only the abused doctor getting Ativan but crippled as well.

_Just a weakling,_ John reminded him.

"Shut _up!" _House snapped, far from inaudibly, and several customers turned to look. He limped over to the bench, which already held a few people, but they packed in, feeling sorry for the cripple and giving him a corner.

Now that he had drawn their attention, he could tell that one of the customers was trying to place him. She kept glancing over, trying to be surreptitious about it, as she studied the merchandise on the shelf. She knew she had seen him somewhere recently but couldn't quite place it. House sat there fingering his cane and longing to get out of here ASAP. A boy, about 6 years old, bounded up after a few minutes and looked curiously at House. "What happened to your leg?" he asked with the brazenness of youth.

"Steven," his grandmother, who was sitting next to House on the bench, accosted. "You don't ask people questions like that."

"Why not?" the boy asked. He looked back at House, studying the cane. "Were you a NASCAR driver in an accident?" Clearly, this was the most cool option he could come up with.

"_Yes,"_ House replied. "I was doing over 200 miles per hour when a tire blew, and I spun out and hit the wall in the turn."

The boy's eyes widened. "WOW. That is SO cool. Did they have to cut you out of the car?"

"So they tell me. I was knocked out in the crash, so I don't remember it."

"Awesome," the boy replied, and House suddenly had an image of him repeating this story at his own family Thanksgiving and then around school next week. He smiled slightly. No harm in giving the boy a bit of status with his friends.

"You should have seen the pictures of the car," he said, leaning forward. Steven's grandmother tried to hide her own smile, clearly realizing what House was doing. "It looked like a crunched-up Coke can."

"Arlene Simpson, Matthew Woodford, Gregory House," the worker at the check-out window called, reading off a stack of prescription bags that the pharmacist had just handed her.

Both Steven's grandmother and the woman who had been trying to place him looked over quickly as House pried himself to his feet. The grandmother had the grace not to say anything, although the recognition was clear in her eyes. The woman had no such compunctions. "Gregory House! You're the one who was on the news! The doctor who turned in that awful man." She hurried over, starting to grab House's hand and then hesitating at the cane, seizing his left after a moment instead and threatening to pump it off. "It is _such_ an honor to meet you." The scene was drawing the attention of a few others now, too.

"It was nothing," House stated, trying to limp toward the pharmacy pick-up window. She went along, attached to him like a leach. "Anybody would have done the same."

"It wasn't nothing for those children," the woman insisted. "Thank you. I have a daughter myself, and just the thought of monsters like that out there is terrifying. At least there are also people like you. Thank you so much." She still had his left hand captured, and House tugged it free.

"I really need _one_ hand to pick up my prescription," he pointed out, deliberately using his handicap as an excuse to get out of here faster.

She jumped, embarrassed at her thoughtlessness. "Oh, of course. I didn't mean . . . but once again, thank you. I'll sleep better at night knowing that man is put away."

House tossed his credit card onto the counter and pulled out his ID, but the cashier barely glanced at it, only giving a passing nod to the formal requirement. Obviously, House's ID was provided by the nightly news at the moment, not the Department of Motor Vehicles of New Jersey. She swiped the card, then handed him the receipt and the bag. "_Thank you_, Dr. House," she said with emphasis.

He nodded, gripped the bag tightly in his left hand to avoid further hand-shaking assault, and turned to head for the door. And why on earth did these places put the pharmacy at the back of the entire store? A gauntlet of customers stretched between him and the exit, and in his imagination, every one of them was either looking at him or deliberately _not_ looking at him, trying to give the illusion that he was unrecognized. In fact, only the people closest to the pharmacy window had even noticed this scene, but to House, everyone in the store was zeroed in on him.

Steven moved out into his path, studying him. "What are they all talking about?"

"Ask your grandmother," House dodged.

Steven looked over at her, obviously a not-too-free source of information, and then shrugged off the vagaries of adults and turned back to a more exciting topic. "It must be neat to be recognized everywhere. I can't wait to tell the other kids I met a real live NASCAR driver."

"Got to go now, kid," House pointed out, edging past him. "Enjoy Thanksgiving."

"Have a good Thanksgiving yourself, Dr. House," the grandmother said, giving him a grateful smile.

House nodded back, then limped quickly - as quickly as he could - out of the store. Once outside, he got in the car and just sat there for a few minutes, breathing, trying to release the tension. They aren't pitying you, he reminded himself, trying to channel Jensen instead of John. Finally, he came to himself abruptly, realizing how truly late it was getting now. Cuddy would be worried. He quickly started the car and hit the highway, pushing it, not even stopping to stretch his leg, but the drive seemed endless. Cuddy called as he was almost to Princeton, and he hurried the rest of the way home, feeling bad for frightening her. What she _hadn't_ said during that conversation spoke volumes. She had probably been picturing him upside down in a ditch or flatlined in some ER.

He pulled into the driveway, noting Robert and Susan's car already there. With a martyred sigh, he pried himself out of the car - damn leg was acting up now - and limped resolutely toward the house, resigning himself to a Thanksgiving with the relatives. Cuddy had come out of the house and was waiting for him on the porch, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied his stride. "I'm sorry I'm late," he told her.

He hadn't even been thinking of new associations; the words were straight out of the past. Thus, he was surprised when she launched herself at him, carefully steadying him with one arm even while going in for the kiss. He was startled at first, then slowly responded, leaning into her, giving any neighbors who might be looking out their windows a free show. Finally, they broke apart. "It doesn't matter," she told him firmly. "Welcome home, Greg. Come on inside; it's cold out here."

Home. He smiled down at her. Even with difficulties, he did have a place now to come home to, and he had a family in that place. Hand in hand, they entered the house.


	89. AN

Quick A/N: Your chances of an update on MH before the weekend at earliest are basically nonexistent, and one on the weekend is doubtful, as I'll be making up on things missed from the week. March starts the extra musical group working toward the performance in April. That's a good thing, and I'll enjoy it immensely. But it also will seriously slow down updates. I'll give you what I can when I can, but even though there's not much left of the story, I can't possibly see it being completed before the end of April.

This week, turns out I'm unexpectedly dealing with a funeral. Not Mom's, although I honestly wish it were. There's a truly bittersweet moment, when you realize that you would rather have had your mother and best friend die than somebody else. But this week is a disaster. I might get a chance at a chapter Saturday, but I don't know, depends on how insanely behind the rest of life is by then. Doubt I'll feel like it Sunday, given my weekly Sunday activities (that's visit Mom day, not that anybody but me in the family does anymore). After two very bad weeks consecutively on that; if I have a third like those next Sunday after this week, I won't be capable of doing anything more afterward than digging a hole and climbing in, pulling the lid on after me.

The story is fine, all finished mentally. I promise it will get there. But it won't be quick. And it definitely won't be before I join the extra music group. That's only a 6-week commitment, though, not a permanent addition to my schedule.

Sorry to keep you all waiting.

ItH


	90. Chapter 90

Short update, which may quite well be all you get this week. We'll see.

(H/C)

House took a deep breath as he entered the house, and Cuddy gave his left arm a reassuring squeeze. Sure enough, her parents were there, on their feet and waiting in the living room. In fact, Robert had one hand on Susan's arm as if he had been keeping her from rushing on outside herself. He released her as the couple came into the room.

"Greg." Susan hurried across the living room and tackled him like an octopus, arms wrapping tightly around. He would be willing to swear that she even had more than two of them at the moment. "It's so good to see you. You're looking . . ." She hesitated, caught between social convention and truth. "So much better than last year," she said triumphantly, finding a statement that was indeed fact.

"Hope so," House grumbled. "Patients in the hospital aren't usually pageant material." He turned abruptly to Cuddy, trying to push off the emotional level he could feel in the room. "Hey, there's an idea, Lisa. Why don't we have a Miss Princeton-Plainsboro competition among the patients. It would be good morale for them. I can just see the whole line of contestants in their hospital gowns. We could even invite . . ." He skidded to a stop himself on the edge of mentioning the media, who was a sore subject at the moment. Was anything _not_ a sore subject at the moment? How on earth could they spend two days dancing around everything, especially when the number of attendees was going to be greatly increased tomorrow. Damn it, this was going to be awkward. And he had only himself to blame for it; Cuddy would have canceled.

Cuddy grabbed his arm again, squeezing it, trying to arrest his fall down the slippery slope of the current mess. "It's a fun idea, Greg, but somehow I doubt the patients would go for it."

He grabbed the statement gratefully. "They might. Hospitals get boring, you know."

Robert had been hanging back, but he stepped in now, grasping House's hand and shaking it almost painfully. "Hello, Greg."

"Robert." House had always been slightly uncomfortable around Cuddy's father, sensing that the final verdict was still reserved. Watching him now, though, feeling the extra-strength handshake, not in challenge this time but in approval, he realized that he finally had completely won over his father-in-law.

By being publicly exposed as an abuse victim. Great. What kind of screwed-up sense did that make? As soon as his hand was free, he turned toward the hall.

"Dinner is all ready, Greg," Susan said. "You must be starving."

"You guys haven't eaten yet?" Three heads shook decisively. "Okay, just a minute. I want to look in on the girls. Haven't seen them all day." He pushed on away from the group and limped down the hall.

The nursery was silent and peaceful. He stood there for a moment watching Rachel and Abby breathe in steady puffs, watched their eyelids twitch in pleasant dreams. He pulled Abby's blanket up a little further and tucked Mr. Bear in more firmly under Rachel's arm. His daughters. Possibly the only two people in America whose perception of him hadn't changed in the last day.

He heard Cuddy enter the room after a minute. She wrapped both arms around him, pulling him back against her ample chest. He sighed and relaxed slightly. "They think it's a _good_ thing," he objected.

"It _is _a good thing, Greg. They're proud of you. _I'm _proud of you. Even Rachel was proud of you; she saw the nightly news."

House groaned and turned to face her. "She didn't understand what they were talking about, did she? She's too young to have to know _that_."

"No, Greg. She was just proud to see her Daddy on TV. Greg, during everything all day tomorrow, I want you to escape when you need to, okay? You can disappear at intervals. Hide like you do at PPTH; I won't mind."

He grinned. "Even from you?"

"I always knew where you were. I just pretended not to." She gave him a kiss. "Let's go eat, and you need to take your meds."

His grin faded. "Right." His leg throbbed in agreement with her statement.

"It's not pity to want you not to be in pain. It's not pity to care about people you love. And you're overdue for them. Did you stop on the drive back?" She thought he hadn't.

"No," he admitted. "I was in a hurry. I was so late leaving anyway, and then I had to fill a prescription from Jensen - refill on the Ativan." He shuddered, remembering the pharmacy full of people. "By the time I left Middletown, I just wanted to get home so I wouldn't worry you. That worked out great, obviously."

"Next time, try a text up front that just says I'm running late. You should have stopped on the way to stretch out." Her eyes were worried, even though she was trying to fight it back. Not just his leg, he thought, but the pressure of the whole situation, of her parents, the house full of company about to descend on them.

"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it in the new way that time, trying to distract her. When they broke apart a few minutes later, the distraction had worked.

"We need to take a soak in the hot tub tonight, too," she reminded him. "That will help out your leg."

"Right." He pulled away, resigning himself to family contact at the moment. "I'll be in there in a minute. Have to go to the bathroom."

"Okay." She gave him a final squeeze, then turned to head back to the kitchen, and even with all the stress, he watched her ample rear as she went out the door. With a final look at his daughters, he left the room himself.

(H/C)

Dinner was an exercise in conversational agility, trying to have normal-sounding family discussion while everybody there was aware of the elephant in the room. "So, how is James?" Susan asked, trying for a "safe" topic.

House grimaced, and Cuddy kicked his left foot gently under the table. "He's doing fine. You'll see him tomorrow; he's coming to dinner along with his girlfriend."

"Good. He was so much help last year in all that. He's a good friend. I was really impressed with his psychiatrist, too, that Dr. Jensen. He spent the whole week in Princeton just being a support to James."

House ate a few more bites, suddenly relieved that there was still _one_ thing that Cuddy's parents didn't know about him.

"Jensen is a good psychiatrist," Cuddy said. "Actually, you might remember Wilson's girlfriend when you see her, too. She's a nurse at the ICU. Wilson noticed her because he saw so much of her during our hospitalization."

"One of the few nurses I could stand," House added in tribute to Sandra. "She didn't try to smother you, but she wasn't a pushover, either."

Susan shivered. "I'll never forget that week, worrying about everybody. We weren't sure you'd ever wake up, or if Abby would be all right, or . . ."

"Got a lot to be thankful for this year," Robert put in.

House nodded, remembering Jensen's similar comment. "Yes, we do." He felt Cuddy's reaction and looked quickly at her. "What is it?"

"I was just remembering myself you collapsing in front of me." She shivered herself. "Yes, we have a _lot_ to be thankful for this year. And even then, Greg, you were worried about Rachel, trying to keep from hurting her. I'll never forget that, either."

Trying to protect Rachel. Protecting her not only from his own impending physical collapse but from John, who had been suggesting in his chilling laughter that he would take her. House still remembered the satisfaction that had been his last conscious thought. He had kept Rachel safe. He had gone down to hell alone.

_He had kept Rachel safe_.

"Greg?" He snapped to himself realizing suddenly that everybody else at the table was staring at him. Cuddy was just in the process of pushing her chair back to come around the table when his eyes finally focused. He wondered how long he had zoned out. Clearly, it had been enough to make him the center of attention. Again.

"I'm okay," he assured her. "Just thought of something." He could see the curiosity in her eyes; she knew he had had an epiphany.

Susan was still studying him anxiously, trying to make sure he was all right. Cuddy took a deep breath. "So, anybody want more salad?" Slowly, the table conversation returned to the censored version they had been having.

(H/C)

House settled back into the hot tub with a sigh. It was getting quite late now, and tomorrow would be a long day, but he needed this tonight, both for his leg and for the memories. He could feel the heat working on his thigh, seeping into the ruined muscles, easing the pain. He closed his eyes, enjoying the heat, waiting for her.

Cuddy entered the bathroom several minutes later, holding a freshly purchased bag of ice. He nodded toward it. "Your parents wonder what on earth we're doing?"

"They didn't come out of the guest room to ask."

"Good. They might revise their opinion of me and think I really was crazy."

"They aren't going to do that." She set the ice down. "Greg, what did you think of at dinner?"

He straightened up a bit, his eyes lighting up. He always had enjoyed sharing the jumps of his mind. "Protecting Rachel. It just occurred to me, that's the perfect image to focus on as the anti-trigger for the threat against Mom. Dad was _right there_, you know. Not that you could see him, but I could. He wanted me to give him Rachel. The last thing I thought before I went unconscious was satisfaction that he hadn't gotten her and I had kept her from being hurt."

Cuddy gulped, remembering her own image again of House collapsing into seizures in front of her, but she tried to keep the upbeat mood. "That's great, Greg. Works perfectly. Let's see, what does that leave us?"

"Jensen said to focus on the major ones, the specific events with the most detail, not just the general fact. Those notes really aren't a complete look at me." Cuddy hid a smile, hearing the echo of the psychiatrist in that statement. "The only big one left that they have is the carpet." House shivered himself, in spite of the hot tub. "That's going to be a tough one. It's always been one of the strongest triggers anyway."

"We'll get there, Greg. We're making a lot of progress. Got it down to just one left in only a day, and we have several days still before the hearing." She started to undress, taking it slowly, trying to distract him. It worked. She felt his eyes roaming her form appreciatively, and a tingle traveled the length of her body. He could do things to her just by looking. She dropped the last article of clothing on the floor, then bent to pick up the ice. "Okay, Greg. Here we go; the new version of an ice bath, but this one doesn't do anything but melt." She tore open the bag, then raised it high to pour, smiling reassuringly at him.

He flinched sharply, jerking back and retreating a few feet across the hot tub. The previous mood of a moment ago shattered into tiny bits and fell to the floor. Cuddy stopped instantly, the ice all still in the bag. "Greg?" She put the bag down and walked around the edge a few feet to get to him, her hands finding his shoulders and squeezing reassuringly. "Hey. It's okay. It's all over."

His breathing was a bit uneven, but he tried to answer her. "Could you . . . not pick it up like that?"

"Like . . ." She analyzed in retrospect that movement, so natural seeming, picking up the bag high to clear the edge of the tub and pour well into the water. "Is that how he did it?"

He nodded. "And . . ." He trailed off, looking away, not wanting to state whatever came next.

"What is it, Greg?" She grabbed his chin and rotated his head back around to face her.

"Nothing."

"_What is it_, Greg?" she demanded.

He sighed. "You were . . . _smiling_."

"I was trying to . . ." An image of John House suddenly filled her mind, holding the ice high as he poured, a sadistic smile on his lips as he watched his son cower. "Oh damn, I didn't even think how he would have . . . of _course_ he would have been smiling when he did it." She shook her head, fury filling her once again. "That bastard had better be glad he's dead, because if he weren't, I'd kill him. Slowly, inch by inch, and you'd better believe I'd be smiling." Remembering the present task, she gave her husband's shoulders a final squeeze and then stepped back. "Okay, let's try this again, differently. I wasn't even thinking how he would have done it."

House looked away again, ashamed. "How on earth are we going to make this work between now and Monday? I'm too screwed up."

"Wrong." The fires of determination lit in her eyes. She picked up the ice again and moved it closer but still on the outside. "You aren't screwed up, Greg. You've been hurt, and you're healing. Just like all those kids will have a chance to now. Rachel isn't half as proud of you as I am." She stepped into the tub herself, settling down against him. "Okay, take two." Reaching over the edge of the tub, she found the ice bag and picked up a handful, then brought it back over the edge, holding it out so he could see it but pressing her whole body against his, letting him feel the contact. She was careful not to smile this time, but the love was shining clear in her eyes. "You're surrounded by love now, Greg. And love is warm. That's what you've got now, all around you. It's stronger than the past. It's stronger than the hate. And it's sure stronger than that sick bastard who was married to your mother." Piece by piece, she let the ice fall from her hand. "Watch it melt, Greg. It keeps getting smaller, and eventually, you can't even find it anymore." His eyes were glued to the ice, shrinking before their eyes in the gently steaming water. Handful by handful, she emptied the bag into the hot tub until it had all disappeared, and then she turned to him, letting herself smile now, and they sank together into the hot, embracing waters of love.


	91. Chapter 91

A/N: Quick scene as the server is down at work. Take it as you can get it for the next month, folks; no way to predict a schedule. Too much going on.

(H/C)

_Thanksgiving Day_

Cuddy was up betimes the next morning, waking up even before her alarm clock. In spite of how late it had been after the completion of their non ice bath, she felt absolutely charged up and practically bounced out of bed like a racehorse bursting from the starting gate. She figured she could probably run through this day on adrenaline. There was not only the stress of the situation with Patrick, although that was by far the largest, but she also had been forced to delegate much of the preparation and details for today, and that bothered her. Feeling out of control of logistics in a situation was almost akin to personal failure. Her administrative soul rebelled at the idea. But juggling House and PPTH this week, Thanksgiving had simply had not much attention left.

She switched on the light and quickly got dressed, though she did take a moment to check on House first. He was still sound asleep, as she'd expected. Not only were the sleeping pills extremely effective on him, but she had also talked him into a dose of extended-release morphine last night so that his body could rest from the leg pain as well while his mind was off line. His leg had still been bothering him more than usual even after their hot soak. She thought it was a combination of muscle tension from the current situation, plus the fact that he had gotten off schedule with his meds the way yesterday fell out, but she definitely thought he needed something extra last night. He capitulated only after analyzing her worry. He knew she'd get far less sleep than he would anyway, with the prospect of a house full of company and her feeling that she wasn't adequately prepared for it. Lying awake worrying about him would only deduct from that total.

So he was still deeply out in medicated rest, didn't even stir when she switched on the light. She carefully felt along his leg, probing the scar. No cramps, no tension at all. The mutilated muscles seemed as far under as he was. Good. She pulled the covers back up, then kissed him and switched the monitor and the lamp off, finding her way in the darkness to the bedroom door.

A light-colored blur whizzed past her legs as she opened the door, and she jumped slightly, then smiled in recognition. Flipping the light switch beside the door revealed the white cat, who had jumped up onto the bed and was sniffing along House with an expression of almost feline concern. "He's okay," Cuddy assured her. "You could have seen him last night if you hadn't been hiding." Belle looked back at her, the golden eyes sending such an eloquent comment on the company that Cuddy had to grin. "You're right; I don't blame you. I've wanted to myself plenty of times. You can keep him company while he sleeps a little longer." Belle settled down against House's side and tucked her paws in, and Cuddy carefully switched off the light and shut the door.

Once in the public part of the house, she spun into a whirlwind of activity. For this morning, preparation could replace yoga and would probably burn as many calories, even if it was far less relaxing. The cleaning service she had hired to come yesterday had indeed left the place spotless, but she still had to check each surface, each corner, just to make sure it passed inspection. She was heading for the kitchen to see how far Marina, who had promised to help with pre-cooking preparations for the big dinner this afternoon, had gotten when the guest room door opened, and Susan emerged on tiptoe. She disappeared down the hall toward the bathroom, then found Cuddy in worried contemplation of the refrigerator a few minutes later.

"Relax, Lisa. I already did an inspection last night."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "I'll do my own, thank you. Is Dad still asleep?"

"Yes. Much easier to let the men just sleep late; they'd only be in the way." Susan opened a cabinet and starting removing ingredients herself. "It's okay, Lisa; everything will be perfect."

"People start arriving about 10:00," Cuddy reminded her. "They're mostly from your side, so you have to help me be the conversational police. I mean it; anybody making a big deal out of this or upsetting Greg gets tossed out bodily into the snow. The big attraction today was always supposed to be Abby."

"She'll still be the center of attention," Susan promised. "Most of them have never met her. Besides, everybody promised us last night when we called after the news."

"They'd better remember that once they get here." Cuddy took a deep breath. "Okay, dinner at 1:00. Hopefully they can start getting back out of here by 4:00 or 5:00." She was inspecting the turkey as she spoke. Marina had it all prepared and ready to pop in the oven.

Susan put a hand on her arm. "Relax, Lisa. It will all be okay. _All _of it."

The monitor in the kitchen, which Cuddy had switched on, kicked into life just then as Rachel woke up. Cuddy looked at her watch. "Damn. They shouldn't be waking up yet."

"Too much excitement going on," Susan summarized. "Come on, Lisa, let's get the girls up, and then I'll occupy them while you cook, or you can occupy them while I cook if you want." Susan left the kitchen, and Cuddy trailed her, feeling like a juggler who was trying to keep far too many balls in orbit.

Rachel and Abby were delighted to see her, having wondered if Susan, the first arrival, was all they were getting. Susan was already starting to get Rachel dressed. Cuddy turned her attention to Abby. "If she woke up dry, could you take her to the bathroom, Mother? We're working on potty training, and she's doing pretty well."

"Sure, dear." Susan finished dressing Rachel and started toward the nursery door. Rachel looked quickly around.

"Dada?"

"He's in the bedroom asleep," Cuddy replied. "He'll be up later." She was focused on changing Abby's dirty diaper, letting Susan deal with Rachel at the moment. She was just finishing getting her younger daughter dressed when Susan came back in.

"She's doing so well, Lisa." She reached over to tickle Abby. "And I can't believe how much this one has grown. Still a little small, but she's so much bigger and less fragile than she used to be."

"She is doing really well," Cuddy agreed, picking up Abby and giving her a grateful hug. Yes, even this year's nightmare couldn't compare with last year's. The silence of the rest of the house struck her suddenly, and she looked quickly around. "Where's Rachel?"

"She was right behind . . . " Susan looked around. No, Rachel wasn't right behind her. "Rachel?" Susan headed out into the hall, looking up and down, and then spotted the open bedroom door. Rachel had gone in search of her father, whom she hadn't been awake to see last night. Susan quickly darted forward, pushing the door wide open and turning on the light. "Rachel! You don't need to be disturbing your father. I am SO sorry, Greg; I should have been keeping a better eye on her. Just go back to sleep. I mean . . . I didn't mean to say I'm sorry. . . um, I meant . . . Greg?"

Cuddy hurried up into the doorway behind her. The overhead light revealed House still sound asleep, Rachel trying determinedly to pull herself up onto the bed using his arm, lying near the edge, as a lever, and Belle just rising in feline wrath from a nap. The cat arched up, bushed her tail, and hissed at Susan. Rachel and Abby both thought this was hilarious and dissolved into laughter again. Susan didn't even notice, her expression concerned now, her eyes fixed on her son-in-law. "Lisa, he hasn't even moved since I turned the light on, even with all the noise." Susan hurried over, reaching out to shake him. "Greg?"

Cuddy hurried after her, putting down Abby on the bed on her empty side and trying to physically pull her mother away. "Quiet, Mother. It's okay."

"Greg!" Susan was rapidly heading toward frantic now, having flashbacks herself to a year ago, all those endless hours spend pleading with him to wake up. She shook him harder. "Greg! Lisa, there's something wrong! I _can't_ wake him up."

"Mother, it's . . ."

Rachel's abrupt wail cut across Cuddy's reassurance. Rachel had picked up enough of the gist of Susan's statements that her own focus shifted from just wanting to see him to worry. She pulled sharply on his arm. "Dada!" The fear was contagious, and Abby started whimpering herself. Belle gave a final hiss and leaped off the bed, but nobody was laughing by this point.

Cuddy hurried around to pick up Rachel. "It's okay, Rachel," she reassured her.

Susan was looking around frantically for a phone. "It's _not_ okay. We need to call 911. Oh, Greg!"

"Dada!" Rachel sobbed.

"MOTHER!" Cuddy shouted. The tone froze Susan on the spot. "Nothing is wrong. Pick up Abby and go to the living room. I'll explain in a minute."

"What's going on?" Robert, in his bathrobe and still with sleep in his eyes, appeared in the doorway.

"Something's wrong with Greg!" Susan wailed, looking back at Cuddy and wondering why she wasn't worried herself.

"Dad, get her out of here," Cuddy commanded.

Robert looked from Cuddy to Susan, then came across the room to grip his wife's arm firmly. "Come on." The rock solid authority in his voice was unmistakable. She went with him, even while still looking worriedly back, and Cuddy went around the bed to sit down on her side where she could put one stabilizing hand on Abby, who was flopping around herself in urgent attempts to reach her father. She set Rachel up on the bed, allowing her access to House. Rachel quickly scrambled to him.

"Dada?"

"He's okay, Rachel. He's okay, Abby. He's just asleep." Cuddy tried to keep her voice reassuring. She wasn't worried about House physically, but she was suddenly worried about this whole day. If things with her parents could go from peace to chaos so quickly, how on earth could they ever survive extended family? The illusion of normality was too fragile. This was never going to work.

Rachel was tracing House's face with her hand. "Something wrong?"

"No, Rachel. Nothing's wrong with him. He's just sound asleep, like Abby gets when she's really tired. Here, put your hand here. You can feel him breathing. Nice and steady. Everything's okay. He'll wake up in a few hours."

Rachel still looked worried, but her mother's calmness was starting to sink in. She trusted Cuddy's reactions more than Susan's. "Is Dada okay?'

"He's okay. I promise. He's just very deeply asleep."

Rachel snuggled down next to him, head on his chest. Cuddy stayed there with the girls for a few minutes, letting Abby feel him breathing, too, waiting until at least the girls were relaxed again. No chance today that she would achieve that state herself. Finally, she stood up and picked up Abby. "Come on, Rachel. Let's go into the kitchen, and maybe you can help me get ready. We'll close the door and just let him sleep, okay?"

"Okay." Rachel wiggled off the bed and trailed Cuddy out of the bedroom. Cuddy closed the door firmly behind them. Together the three of them went into the living room, where Susan was standing beside the window wringing her hands, and Robert had both hands firmly on her shoulders. They turned as Cuddy and the girls entered.

"Is he. . ." Susan started, and Cuddy's icy glare froze the words before the sentence was completed.

"Tired," Rachel answered wisely. "Let him sleep."

"Yes, let's let him sleep," Cuddy agreed. "He's okay. Rachel, why don't you find a movie for you and Abby to watch?" Rachel gave a chortle of glee and raced to the movie cabinet. A movie first thing in the morning was a rare treat. Cuddy came up closely to her parents and lowered her voice. "Greg is on sleeping pills at night right now to block nightmares, and he also had a large dose of morphine last night because his leg was bothering him so much. He needed the rest. He's perfectly fine, but no, you aren't going to get him to wake up this early as late as he took his meds last night."

Susan let out a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Lisa. I was just remembering last year when we _couldn't_ wake him up."

Cuddy sighed. "I'm counting on you to _help_ me today, not to freak out first yourself. I can't do this alone when everybody gets here."

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"Just remember, there are triggers and things that you don't know about. Even _I _don't know about all of them. He doesn't even remember everything himself sometimes until he gets reminded. The number one rule is to keep calm, even if you don't understand what's going on at times. And especially don't get the kids worried."

Susan nodded. "I understand." She looked past Cuddy to the kitchen. "I'll go see about that turkey," she offered, trying to make amends.

Cuddy was still annoyed, but she had to have her parents as allies today. "I'd appreciate that." Susan headed for the kitchen.

Robert gave his daughter a wry smile. "Happy Thanksgiving, Lisa."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Dad," she replied. She looked down at Abby, her miracle child, and again remembered events of a year ago herself, the uncertainty over Abby, the hours she herself had spent begging House to open his eyes. Suddenly, she couldn't blame her mother as much for freaking out with an entire relevant set of data missing. If she hadn't known herself what was going on, she too would have been frantic.

Rachel galloped back up to them, holding out a movie, and Robert took it from her and collected Abby with his other hand. As he headed for the TV, Cuddy turned toward the kitchen to resume preparations for the coming family invasion.


	92. Chapter 92

A/N: The last exchange is a play off of the opening line of a famous poem called "the Destruction of Sennacherib." Makes sense that House, the voracious reader of everything, whether he agrees with it or not, might have run into this, one of the most famous opening lines in English literature. Look up the poem if you aren't familiar; it's deservedly well known. And to those who got the reference automatically, sorry for pointing it out, but there's nothing like making a reference and having part of the audience miss it. I miss plenty of modern music, movie, and TV things in my reading, I'm sure, but I do love throwing in the occasional literary joke from a field with which I am far more familiar.

"We'll have peace if I have to enforce it with war," is a well-remembered saying of Mom's from my childhood. She also was fond of telling us that the family was a democracy and we could vote on anything we liked, but that she had four votes (there were three of us kids, at least that first batch). Thus her vote decided on anything. :)

Server is down this morning, hopefully up in another 30 minutes. There's also nothing like sitting here not working and earning when you're supposed to be. Sigh.

(H/C)

Several hours later, the house was practically humming like a beehive with activity. Cuddy was glad of her parents now. Susan was a lot of help in the kitchen, where the extensive meal preparations were well in progress, and Robert had been watching and entertaining the grandkids. Cuddy looked at her watch: 8:45. "I'm going to go wake up Greg," she told Susan. "Back in a few minutes." Susan nodded, focusing on the pot in front of her as if it were the most interesting thing on earth.

As Cuddy came through the living room, she stopped, then couldn't resist whipping out her cell phone for a picture. Both girls were sound asleep on Robert's lap on the couch as the neglected TV played on. "Nap time's early today, apparently," her father stated, looking perfectly content in the pile of grandkids.

"They aren't used to getting up at 4:30 a.m. Everything's probably going to be off schedule today. They know something big is going on. They'll be the stars of the show, though." At least she hoped they would be. They'd _better_ be. Worry creeping back in around the smile, she went on back to the master bedroom.

Entering and closing the door again, she looked at her husband, then had to pull the cell phone back out for another picture. House was still asleep, and Belle had rematerialized from wherever cats disappeared to - she'd probably crept back into the bedroom unnoticed after Susan left the room, while Cuddy was calming down the girls. She was on House's chest in leonine pose, the picture of feline contentment. As the camera clicked, Belle opened her golden eyes and studied the intruder. Cuddy felt an abrupt urge to give the password.

Going over to the bed, she sat down on the edge and ran one hand along her husband's face. He shifted slightly, toward her rather than away. Fortunately, he had been at the peak effectiveness of the heavy double dose of meds earlier during all the fireworks, but he was a lot closer to the surface now. She put a hand on his shoulder and shook him. "Greg?" she said softly. "Greg. Time to wake up." He grimaced and pulled away from her that time, making some unintelligible sound that still conveyed his meaning perfectly. She smiled again. "I'm sorry, Greg."

The extended kiss at least got his eyes open, although they looked somewhat foggy. The sustained-release morphine always threw him for a bit of a loop, unlike the sleeping pill, which had no hangover effect on him. "Not morning," he protested. "Just a nice dream." His eyes fell closed again. She grinned and kissed him.

"No, it is morning. Sorry." Another physical punctuation to the words. "Everybody will start getting here in about an hour."

That definitely dragged his eyes open again. "That's not in the dream," he objected.

"You're not dreaming. It really is morning. It's 8:45. You've got time to have breakfast and shower before the hoards descend."

He sighed and looked over at the clock, then back to her with sleepy concern. "How long have you been up?"

"I woke up just after 4:00," she admitted.

He shook his head. "Not enough. We didn't get to bed till about midnight."

"I know, but I'll make it up after they all leave. Trust me, the adrenaline will last me through today. I'll sleep in tomorrow; we're off then."

"Believe it when I see it," he replied. "The sleeping in, I mean." His eyes had closed again, but they came back open now. "You'll be up with the girls anyway. I'm not much use with them at nights right now."

"Quit it," she said firmly. "Don't go blaming yourself for Patrick again. Mom and Dad aren't leaving until tomorrow, and maybe they can get the girls up and we really can sleep in." She stood back up briskly. "Come on, Greg. It really is time to get moving, I'm afraid." She made no mention of the ruckus earlier; hopefully, he'd never have to know. He would consider it another failure on his part, although she still thought that if she actually had been in danger instead of just pissed off at her mother, it would have had a better chance of soaking through the meds. There hadn't really been any true threat to his family.

She watched him sit up slowly, carefully swinging his leg over, waiting for the morning bite of the pain. It was there but not as much as usual; the morphine was still giving him some residual benefit. Belle, her lounging platform disrupted, moved over with a ruffled expression, and he scratched her ears in apology. He shook his head, trying to clear the thinning fog. "How much did you give me last night?"

"Enough." Every bit as much as she had thought was safe. He had needed the rest, mentally and physically, before tackling today.

"Okay, I'm up. Be there in a minute." He still was a bit self-conscious about standing up and going through the initial daily testing of his leg in front of her, even after all this time. She turned away, granting him the desired privacy.

"See you in a minute. I'll make you some eggs." She left the room, closing the door, and returned to the kitchen.

"Is he all right?" Susan asked, not looking at her.

"He's fine, Mother. He'll be here in a minute."

Susan looked over at her then. "Is it that bad, that you have to knock him totally out every night?"

"Not usually, no. In case you haven't noticed, we're sort of in a crisis right now. He also had morphine on top of it last night, like I said, and I did make that a large dose. We almost never give him all that at once."

Susan sighed. "I can't believe I never noticed anything. I can see a few things now in retrospect, just reactions here and there, things I thought were odd at the time."

"Then keep them to yourself. He's getting better. Just leave the whole subject alone."

"I will," her mother promised. "I just wish I'd known before; I'm sure we've done or said things that reminded him without realizing it. I could have been a better mother-in. . ." She came to a dead halt in meal preparations, her eyes suddenly flashing, her shoulders stiffening with the Cuddy ire. "What the _hell_ was his mother doing while he was growing up?"

Cuddy fought back her own residual annoyance on that subject. "She didn't realize until early last year. That's when she started therapy herself."

Susan looked dubious. "All those years Greg lived with her? While that . . . beast was nailing him to the floor and giving him ice baths and beating him and breaking his arm? She never even noticed the injuries and put it together?"

"Does she strike you as the sharpest crayon in the box?" Cuddy snapped. "I don't know how she managed to have a son who is a genius. Greg's father - his _real_ father - must have been something." She caught herself abruptly and looked quickly at her mother, but Susan was so far overloaded on new information recently that that comment drew hardly a blink. "Yes, John wasn't his father, which is probably part of why he hated Greg. But don't bring that up either. I'm mad at Blythe, too, and at me - I never noticed in 20 years. But this isn't the time to compare obliviousness. Stuff a sock in it; he'll be in here in a few minutes." Remembering that fact herself, she pulled out a skillet and started scrambling a few eggs.

Susan took a deep breath. "Right. I won't say anything in front of him." She studied the dishes in front of her. "My God."

Cuddy tilted her head, hearing the irregular thump of his cane in the hall. "Mother," she hissed and then drew one hand across her throat dramatically. Susan nodded.

House limped in, and Cuddy studied his stride as he dropped into a chair at the small kitchen table. The larger formal dining room table was already in the process of being set for the big dinner. All of House's movements were a bit slowed right now - that was the morphine - but the leg didn't seem to be bothering him too much. Good. The rest had helped him, resetting the pain levels from those of the last day.

"Good morning, Greg," Susan said brightly, her eyes still glued to the stove.

"Morning," he replied, running one hand through his hair. It wasn't combed yet and was standing up seven ways to Sunday. Cuddy suddenly registered the rest of his appearance, moving past analysis of his leg, and her eyes widened. He was wearing his most faded and ratty pair of blue jeans, one of his oldest rock T-shirts with an obnoxious band emblem across the front, and an unbuttoned long-sleeve shirt of hideously clashing color over that which had seen better days and which hadn't been intended for style even during those.

"No," she said firmly. "You are _not_ wearing that to Thanksgiving dinner."

Susan looked around to reach her own verdict, and her eyes widened. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish.

House grinned at both of them, his eyes full of sleepy mischief. "You were just telling me last night, Lisa, that everybody was really coming to see Abby. So what does it matter?"

Secretly, Cuddy was delighted that he felt good enough this morning to want to play with them, but she didn't let amusement falter her resolve. "Exactly. But show up in that, and they _will_ all be looking at you. I'll get you some things while you eat breakfast, and you can change clothes when you shower."

He rolled his eyes. "Geez, Mom. I've been picking out my own clothes for years."

She slammed a plate of scrambled eggs down in front of him in mock annoyance. "Well, you aren't today. One strike, and you're out." She poured him a cup of coffee and set it beside his plate. He capitulated fairly easily. She knew that he actually hadn't intended to wear that outfit to Thanksgiving dinner with the relatives, not that he would have minded, but he knew she would. He had already gotten what he was after, which was Cuddy's initial reaction and Susan's appalled stare. She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Behave yourself today."

"No fun," he protested.

"Too bad." She left him to his breakfast and walked back down the hall, making it safely to the bedroom and shutting the door before laughing. Her mother's expression _had_ been something, as had the obvious loss for adequate words. House would have been disappointed if they hadn't reacted in open disapproval; he was still trying to make sure he wasn't seen as an object of pity. Cuddy finally composed herself and started for the closet, pulling out a set of black slacks and that blue dress shirt that brought out his eyes. She didn't get out a tie, her own concession to his preferences, but tie or not, he still could make a dazzling picture when he chose to. Suddenly feeling a bit better about today, she hung the clothes in their private bathroom, then returned to the kitchen to find House working his way through breakfast and Susan determinedly _not_ looking at him, which he was enjoying immensely.

The doorbell gave its first summons while House was in the shower. Cuddy looked at her watch, then out the window, growling under her breath, then relaxed. The car out front was Wilson's. She opened the door. Wilson was impeccably attired, of course, tie included, fully to Susan's standards, and Sandra looked beautiful. They stood there side by side on the doorstep, and only very observant eyes could have noticed the distance, psychological and not physical, between them. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Sandra replied. "I realize we're a little earlier than you said, but I thought you might be glad of some help in the kitchen when everybody arrived." And elsewhere, although Sandra had the tact not to say so.

"Thank you," Cuddy said, meaning it. "Come on in." She stepped back. "Dad, you've met James Wilson, of course, at the wedding."

Abby and Rachel stirred, waking up, and looked around. "Wilson!" Rachel said. She jumped down and hugged a leg, then looked around. "Shhh. Let Dada sleep."

"He's up. He's in the shower," Cuddy told her. Rachel looked miffed at sleeping herself through her father's awakening.

Robert stood up, holding Abby, and shook Wilson's hand. "Good to see you again."

"And you, Mr. Cuddy. This is my . . . girlfriend, Sandra." The hesitation was barely noticeable.

Sandra shook hands. Susan had emerged from the kitchen at that point, hearing the voices, and another round of greetings was exchanged. Cuddy took a moment to pull Wilson over to one side. "Wilson," she said softly. "Your mission today, and you don't get a choice on accepting it, is to keep an eye on Greg, and if he disappears for more than 15 minutes, go find him and make sure he's all right. Give him the 15 minutes first, though. Understand?"

"Yes," he assured her. "Did you guys see the news last night?"

"We all did; he didn't. My sister is already scheduled for execution. Everybody coming is forewarned, and we are not going to talk about this. Period. We'll have peace if I have to enforce it with war. The feature presentation of the day is Abby."

"Right," Wilson said dubiously.

Just then House emerged down the hall, hair still wet from the shower but combed neatly now. Cuddy studied him, and he made a point of stopping and posing for inspection. "Do I pass?"

He looked marvelous, the blue shirt having its usual effect, the black slacks outlining his tall form. "Yes," she replied with a smile. "You look very nice."

"Dada!" Rachel charged up, and he bent to pick her up, with the required momentary hesitation to make sure his balance was set.

"Morning, kid."

"We let you sleep! Shhh!" she emphasized.

"Thank you. I appreciate that. I'll be sure to let you sleep later," he retorted.

"NO!" She immediately squirmed to get down.

"Oh, you'll need a nap," he insisted. "In fact, why don't you take one now?"

"No." She looked around, seeking any distraction. "Snowman!"

"Not just yet, maybe in a little while."

Cuddy smiled and left them to it, returning to the kitchen with Sandra and Susan. House set Rachel down and took Abby from Robert, giving her a hug. "Morning, Abby."

"Morning!" she replied, coming up with another word, and he smiled.

A car door shut outside, and House went over to the window to look. Sure enough, here was a car of relatives unloading, still a bit early. Wilson came up beside him. "The invasion begins," the oncologist said sympathetically.

House gave a sigh. A second car pulled up in front of the house and began disgorging its passengers. House felt an absurd impulse to run, followed immediately by the bitter reminder that he _couldn't_ run. "The Cuddys came down like the wolf on the fold," he quipped.

Wilson grinned. "Remember, they lost in the poem. They were defeated."

"But this is reality," House reminded him. Outside, the line was starting up the sidewalk toward the door.


	93. Chapter 93

Very short update. This chapter was supposed to have 3 scenes, but only time to write down the first one. More stress for the Cuddy-House family upcoming right around the corner, of course.

(H/C)

The doorbell rang. House backed half a step, obviously having no intention of opening it himself, and Wilson started for the door, ever helpful. Cuddy beat him, swooping in from the kitchen, her head up, her stride brisk, the administrator on an agenda. Her utter determination to conquer this day and keep it under control brought a smile to House's lips, and he was watching her, not the guests, in the first moment as they began to stream in.

That first moment when he was in the background, of course, was short-lived. Unerringly, they looked for him as soon as they socially could. It didn't help matters that he was holding the alleged star of the show. "Greg! So good to see you . . . um. . . oh, this is Abby. Isn't she adorable?" They swarmed in. A few of these people he had never met before; many of the others he had only met at the wedding, when he had been tied up in knots of a different sort and so distracted that he'd barely noticed the guests. They were mostly aunts, uncles, and cousins from Cuddy's side; Susan had several relatives, and Robert had a few. Cuddy had promised him that this wouldn't be an annual event, but the story of Abby had ricocheted for months around the family, made the more interesting by the fact that nobody was allowed to visit. Abby had been hospitalized for months and then on finally coming home at first had been far too fragile and susceptible immunologically to deal with a crowd. So this celebration had been set up, one presentation party to everybody at once, getting it over with in one day rather than several piecemeal, and then the extended family would be satisfied for the most part with occasional family grapevine updates.

Then Patrick had crashed like a tsunami into their plans, and the family grapevine was occupied this week with much more breaking news than Abby.

Nobody said anything; House was sure Cuddy had threatened them all thoroughly. Both his newly revealed background and the activities of Patrick Chandler were verboten. But it was there in every look, every non-look. Abby wasn't the center of attention, even though they tried to pretend she was. Cuddy came up alongside him, standing close enough that their arms brushed slightly, offering silent support to him and a silent reminder to everybody else. The atmosphere was awkward, but they were trying, all of them. House handed off Abby, a bit reluctantly even though he knew she was stronger now, and the official inspection and admiration started, but every other glance was back toward him.

Saved by the cell phone. House pulled his phone out and stabbed on without looking. He would have talked to anybody short of 60 Minutes right now, just to do _something_. "Hello?"

"Gregory!" It was Blythe. "Happy Thanksgiving, dear."

"Hi, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving. Hang on a second." He turned to Cuddy. "It's Mom. I'll take it back in the bedroom." She nodded, glad he had an excuse to take a breather from the initial press of greetings. He headed down the hall, feeling all eyes following him, hearing the unspoken questions as several people wondered exactly how his mother fit into his background story.

The bedroom was an oasis of peace. He shut the door firmly on the world, then sat down on the bed and lifted his leg up. "Hi, Mom."

"Is this a bad time, Greg? I know you said a lot of Lisa's relatives were coming. I tried to call before you'd be sitting down to dinner."

"No, Mom, this is a wonderful time. Gave me a perfect excuse to get out of the initial arrivals for a few minutes."

He heard the guilt in Blythe's tone. "They all saw the news, didn't they?"

"I haven't taken a poll, but that's a safe bet."

"Greg, I am so. . . I apologize again for all this."

"It's not all your fault, Mom. This man would have found information somewhere even if he'd had to dig a little deeper. Yes, you made a big mistake, but we wouldn't have avoided revenge anyway, not once he got mad at me over Christopher."

"But everybody really knows now. The local TV station even came by yesterday asking me about you."

His heart jumped. "What did you tell them?"

"I just told them I was proud of you. Nothing more. I said they'd have to get a statement somewhere else."

He gave a soft sigh of relief. "Good."

"It's the truth, Greg. I am proud of you. The things they're saying now on TV . . . is this man really that bad?"

"I haven't seen the news, but safe to say he's worse. I'm sure the news doesn't have everything. He's even worse than . . . Dad." He felt his pulse kicking back up again. "Do we have to talk about this?"

"Of course not." Blythe backed off. "I just wanted to wish you happy Thanksgiving. Give Lisa and Rachel and Abby a kiss for me, okay?"

"I will." A memory of holidays with his father settled down over him like a cloud, and he shook his head. "What are you doing today?"

"I'm going to a dinner at the senior center. I have a lot of friends now, Greg. I . . . I did want to ask really quickly, whenever you have to testify against this man, would you like me to come up there, or would I just be in the way? I'll come if it would help, but I don't want to just be something else to deal with."

"I . . . I'd really rather not, Mom. I've got people here who will be with me, and it's a long trip for you. I'm sure I'll have to testify in Kentucky at some point; the states are all getting in line right now, and we'll probably wind up with a trial in each, to stack on as many sentences as possible just to make double sure he never gets parole." That was provided he was in the prison system at all and not in a psychiatric hospital manipulating the staff. Which was up to House's testimony. House forced himself to take a deep breath. "I'll stay with you then, and you can come to court on that one, okay?"

"All right, dear. Whatever is easiest for you. When is the first trial, or do you know yet?"

"There's a preliminary hearing Monday."

"Monday!" Blythe's tone sharpened up, and he pulled the phone away from his ear a few inches. "That's so soon. You mean with his lawyer asking questions and all? Can . . . everybody be ready by Monday?"

That was the million-dollar question at the moment indeed. "What choice have I got?" he snapped. "I do _not_ want to talk about this right now." He leaned his head back against the headboard, hoping he could make it through at least the first few hours of Thanksgiving Day without resorting to either Jensen or Ativan or both.

"I . . ." She managed to stop herself from apologizing again. "I've got to get ready to head for the senior center. I just wanted to talk to you. And Greg, I am so glad you're all healthy this year, you and Abby both. And Lisa, of course. Last year was a nightmare. Things are . . . better now," she offered tentatively. "I am so thankful for that."

He abruptly remembered last year again, the frustration and the worry. "Yes, they are. You're right; this is a good year. Happy Thanksgiving, Mom."

"Happy Thanksgiving. I love you, Greg. Goodbye."

"Bye." He ended the call and sat stretched along the bed for a few more minutes. A movement caught his eye, and he saw Belle emerging cautiously from the closet, where Cuddy hadn't completely closed the door after getting out appropriate clothes earlier. The cat looked around the room, her ears swiveling like radar. "Coast is clear," House told her. "I might join you in there by the end of the day, though. Save me a corner." Belle jumped up onto the bed and walked up his body, carefully staying on the left side. He scratched her ears, and she gave a throaty purr and settled down. "Okay, I'll pet you for a minute. Just don't ask me anything, got it?" Belle blinked at him and said nothing, letting the silence extend. Stroking the cat, House felt his pulse and blood pressure gradually decreasing again, and he felt steadier. Maybe he could just stay in here with Belle all day. Cuddy would probably import turkey scraps for them if he missed the big dinner.

_Just a weakling_, John reminded him.

House straightened up so quickly that his leg and the cat both objected. "Shut up, you bastard," he replied aloud. "You're totally wrong. I'm strong." Feeling anything but, he got to his feet. With another deep breath, he opened the door and headed back down the hall.


	94. Chapter 94

Apologies for any errors with the Cuddy house layout regarding the back yard. I don't recall ever seeing it, but I don't know that it hasn't been shown since I stopped watching.

(H/C)

An hour and a half later, House slipped quietly out the back door, grabbing a jacket. Cuddy noticed him heading that direction and gave him a smile but let him go. Once outside, he simply stood breathing for a moment. It was a cold, fine day, bright sunlight against the snow. House limped out into the back yard and then around the back porch, leaning against the wall of the house, concealed by a shrub in that corner. A perfect spot. Even somebody looking through the back door window right now would not be able to spot him. Hidden, he stood there trying to force himself to relax. His leg was objecting to the cold, but he had to have a break for a few minutes from the crowd.

The break was very short-lived. The back door opened, and House pulled further into the corner. Nobody knew he was here at the moment, and he wasn't about to announce his presence.

Two sets of footsteps softly, tentatively padded along the porch, and then a low voice. "What do you make of him?"

A second voice answered her softly. Two gossipers, having ducked out of the main party to have this Cuddy-proof conversation, unable to completely resist the topic of current - and long past - events. "He doesn't look well to me. So much stress. Poor Greg, dealing with all this. It's an obvious strain on him. The only other time I saw him was at the wedding, but I remember thinking even then that something wasn't quite right, that his reactions were a bit odd. Just an impression, you know, but I've always had a knack for reading people that way."

"I wasn't at the wedding, but based on what Lyla said from her visit earlier, I wondered what his background was and if there was something hidden there. He really is a famous doctor, though. I did some research on the internet last night. He's done well."

"Do you suppose his leg is an old injury from his father?"

"Not according to the internet; they said he was sick or something several years ago. I'm sure he has plenty of old injuries, though. Can you imagine dealing with things like that as a child?"

"Horrible, isn't it? One newspaper even said his father had nailed him to the floor. How exactly do you nail somebody to the floor? Wouldn't he have stigmata, like Jesus?"

"I was wondering how myself. But how do we know he doesn't? He didn't want to shake hands with everybody. What kind of monster must his father have been?"

The soft conversation and speculation continued, but House was no longer hearing it, his mind racing back to that day, to how John had done it. He had been smiling of course, as always. He hadn't actually driven nails into House's flesh, but he had certainly acted like he intended to, even placing one 3-inch nail over his son's chest and raising the hammer, gleefully seeing the tears that House hadn't been able to hold back, as much as he tried. House still remembered the desperate hope along with fear that John really was about to kill him. Another nail fakeout had been aimed at an eye, and the hammer had actually been brought down, stopping less than an inch short of the nail head. The piece of carpet across his chest had been pulled as taut as possible, physically constricting breathing to some extent, but the carpet glue had made it difficult to breathe anyway with the glue freshly put down and his head right at floor level. Then John had left, and for hours, House had struggled against the binding, not trying to free himself but simply fighting the feeling of suffocation, trying to keep breathing. When John returned, he had marched across his son's body before releasing him and giving the usual reminder of consequences if Greg ever told anyone.

House blinked, abruptly coming back to the present. The voices beside him were gone, the women having ducked back in after their brief conversation, but the sense of urgency remained. Carpet glue. He still hadn't thought of a positive image to replace carpet glue, and he had to. One of his strongest triggers; it always had been, based on one of the longest-lasting single instances of abuse, several hours nailed to the floor, and the episode was also described in fair detail in Blythe's notes, clearly having especially horrified her enough that she and her psychiatrist had talked through it at length. He couldn't see the other side missing referring to that subtly in court. The effort to knock him into a public flashback at PPTH had failed, but Patrick's arrogance would probably put that down to error in execution on Andrews' part, not to any lack of effectiveness of the memory. The notes even _said_ that carpet glue was still a strong trigger for him. No, that had to come up on Monday and could even be referred to subtly in conversation by use of a few words as idioms. They had to see this episode as one of their largest caliber bullets.

And Monday was only four days away. He had to be ready. But he wasn't ready, and Patrick might well dodge into the mental health system instead of prison if House couldn't keep a grip on himself at the hearing. Regardless of the cold November day, he started sweating. He fumbled in his pocket, found the bottle of Ativan, and took one, trying to make himself breathe evenly, but he could almost smell carpet glue, even out here. The pill helped, but he still felt a little shaky, the shadow of Monday's hearing looming over him and, as shadows do, even seeming enlarged beyond the horrifying actuality. With slightly trembling fingers, House pulled out his cell phone and sent off a quick text to Jensen. _Got a minute?_

Jensen called back in under two minutes, not texting. House pushed himself away from the wall of the house and walked to the far side of the back yard. Just in case anybody else happened out the back door, he didn't want to be overhead having a quick chat in the bushes with his psychiatrist. "What's wrong?" Jensen asked as House answered. Not how he normally would have opened a conversation with House, but this wasn't a usual session. Given the number of people around on both sides, this one would have to be compressed somewhat, and he knew House wouldn't have called today without an acute reason.

"Were you having your big dinner yet?"

"Not yet," Jensen assured him. "The women getting things ready, people just talking. It's okay. What's wrong?"

House reached the furthest extent of the back yard and stood facing the fence. "I'm . . . feeling frantic again about the carpet glue and the floor. I still haven't got that one. I have to get an image to replace it."

"Did you take the Ativan?" Jensen asked.

"Yes. It's helping some."

"Why are you feeling frantic about things again?"

"Because Monday is only four days away, and I've _got_ to be ready," House snapped. "If I'm not, Patrick will . . ."

Jensen interrupted him, a rare occurrence. "Monday isn't that much closer than it was an hour ago. Why are you feeling frantic right now?"

"Oh. There were a couple of people talking, wondering just how Dad did it and what the exact process was for nailing somebody to the floor."

Even the steady Jensen couldn't completely keep the surprise out of his voice. "They're having conversations like _that_ at your family gathering? Where is Dr. Cuddy?"

"She's doing dinner things, but she is keeping a handle on it. Obvious that she's threatened everybody, the way they react to her. This wasn't in front of everybody. Two of them had to step out on the back porch for a quick gossip session, and I was out there around the corner of the porch taking a break."

"And you just stood there and listened to them talk?"

House sighed. "What was I supposed to do? Seriously, give me an answer here."

"You could have made your presence known, but I understand you wanting to avoid scenes, especially if you were trying to get a break just then. But there wouldn't have been a scene; trust me. They would have been completely - and _rightfully_ - embarrassed at their lack of sensitivity and discretion in discussing those details while at your house, and they would have melted away and not said another word to you all day. I realized that's not the scenario you would predict, but it's a more accurate one. Nobody in your family is going to stand there and continue that sort of discussion in front of you, especially after Dr. Cuddy's threats."

House tilted his head. "You really think they would have just left? Not made a big deal out of it?"

"I really think so. Maybe two more words - 'I'm sorry' - and then an embarrassed exit ASAP." Jensen carefully stuck in that "I'm sorry," and he heard the slight extension of the silence, but House's voice was stronger when he spoke. The new image of Cuddy was working with that one, and thinking of her couldn't do anything but help with the current fears.

"I did consider stepping out in front of them when I first got the direction on the conversation, but I was afraid . . ." He shook his head. "I was afraid. Yeah, right. Good enough summary. I know I could tell Lisa, too, and we'd have instant Armageddon, but I hate to ruin her day. She's working so hard at this. It's almost like she's administrating Thanksgiving. She always takes it personally when something she's tried to get a firm handle on goes wrong anyway."

"There's another option for just overheard things like that, where relatives are being indiscreet and don't know you're around. That's to distract them. Make a noise, break a stick. Bang the wall. Some subtle reminder, unidentified, that there might be other people about. That would stop that topic in its tracks pretty quickly. They don't mean to be insensitive; they're just overloaded on too much information at once. They're trying to process it. You can also simply leave the vicinity yourself still unnoticed if you have any escape route. But don't just stand there and make yourself listen to discussions like that. Do _something_. Anything is better than staying there and letting the conversation around you continue."

"But I do need to get a replacement image for this. It's one of the strongest triggers, and Mom's notes even conveniently tell them that."

"You will, Dr. House."

House was both reassured and frustrated by the psychiatrist's statement. "How can you be sure?" he protested.

"I know you. You will come up with a good replacement image. I have no doubt at all. What's the new association on the threat against your mother?"

"How did you . . . because I only mentioned needing a replacement for this one, not both."

"Correct. When we last talked, you were still two short. So what is it?"

"Keeping Rachel safe. I was thinking of last year, right before I collapsed. My last thought was keeping her safe from injury when I fell. Dad was right there joking that he'd take her, too. The hallucination of him, I mean. But he didn't get her, and she wasn't hurt. The last thing I felt was satisfaction. I kept her safe."

"Wonderful. That's perfect. You will come up with one just as good for the carpet episode." House wished he could share that confidence, but it was encouraging, even if illogical, to get Jensen's unwavering reassurance. "Are you feeling better?" the psychiatrist asked.

"Yes." House took a deep breath. "I guess I shouldn't have stayed there once I knew what they were talking about."

"Right. And court won't be like that, Dr. House. If the other side tried anything that blatant, the judge would intervene. You are not alone in this. You won't be alone Monday, either. And I am positive that you _will_ come up with a good association. Just think about positive things, not about your father. It will come to you. Other than that, how is your day going?"

"Could be worse. Could definitely be better. I've been kind of popping in and out, not staying in the crowd too long. It gives me a break. But Wilson tracks me down if I'm gone too long. He'll probably find me any minute now."

"Good. Popping in and out is a good strategy. So is having James or Dr. Cuddy keep tabs on you; gives you some breathing space but also a reminder that they are there."

"Are you having a good day off?" House asked suddenly.

"Very much. My brother and his family are here. It's a good, relaxing break from everything."

The back door banged, and House looked up to see Wilson striding across the yard, trying to look casual rather than on a mission and failing to do so. "Wilson's coming. I guess my assigned time limit alone, whatever that is, is up."

"Okay. You did right calling me. You have a good support system all around you now, Dr. House. Just remember to allow yourself to use it. I'll let you go now, but you can call again if you need to. Melissa understands; it isn't an issue, and I'm still having a good day off today."

"I will if I have to. Bye, Jensen." House hit the off button just as Wilson reached him.

"Jensen?" The oncologist arched an eyebrow. "You were talking to _Jensen_? He's off today, House. Taking a few days totally for his family. You know how much his family means to him."

House could hear the subtext, the pang of wondering if Jensen was available to House and had only told Wilson not to call, if House had special privileges here that were not extended to his best friend. There was also, far deeper and not even acknowledged, the remaining slight sense of failure that Jensen was better at his own job than Wilson was, that there were times when even a good friend wasn't enough to talk to. House deliberately let his voice go into its most sarcastic. "I know he's taking today off, but what's he going to do at the moment? Hang up on me?"

The diversion worked as Wilson relaxed into a totally familiar playing field. "You are really a jerk at times, you know it?"

House gave an "if the shoe fits" shrug. "I'll bet I could get away with just about anything right now in the middle of all this."

"Oh, I'm sure Cuddy would draw the line somewhere."

"That's why I said just about. I already found the line within 15 minutes of getting up this morning."

"So where's the line?" Wilson asked, exasperation yielding to curiosity.

"This wasn't exactly my first choice of attire for the big family event."

Wilson studied him, then burst out laughing. "I can imagine. I'll bet the look on her face was something."

"The look on her mother's face was even better," House assured him.

"Too bad you don't have pictures. What were you talking to Jensen about?"

"I wondered if he'd answer on his day off." That actually was true; part of House, even if just a small part, had still held out an image of the psychiatrist in the middle of his own family gathering looking down at caller ID and then ignoring it. House couldn't have blamed him.

Wilson shook his head. "Leave the man alone, House. Don't just play games with him. He deserves a day off now and then."

House thought he had gotten Wilson sufficiently disgusted with him to make the oncologist think he knew exactly what that conversation had been about; jumping to conclusions on incomplete information was a talent his friend had. Still a change of subject couldn't hurt. He certainly wasn't going to mention the real reason for that call to Wilson, who was obviously an extension of Cuddy today. If she knew about that porch discussion, the mushroom-shaped cloud over their house would be visible for miles. He didn't want to ruin her Thanksgiving. "So how's life in not happily and possibly not ever after land?"

The oncologist sighed. "Not happily anyway. Ever after is still being debated. Surely she has to make up her mind sooner or later."

"Still want to stick it out?"

Wilson nodded. "You know, watching her the last few days, this is totally different than the others. She's more . . . _real_ than my wives. She's not playing games, not even partly. I really hope I haven't thrown this away."

"If she hasn't tossed you out the door yet, you've still got a chance." House shifted his weight and ran a hand down his thigh. The cold was chewing at his leg, reminding him that he'd been out here a while now. Wilson noticed.

"Hopefully. Let's go in, House. It's cold out here."

House started walking toward the door. "Just imagine the make-up sex. But be careful to imagine it only with _her_."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help agreeing. "I have imagined it. If you ever cheated on Cuddy, hypothetically, how long do you think she would . . ." He broke off as House held up a hand.

"Can't imagine a hypothetical that wouldn't happen. Have you looked at Cuddy lately? More to the point, have you looked at Sandra lately?"

Wilson gave another sigh as they climbed the porch steps, thinking of Sandra. "Yes."

"Keep looking," House advised.


	95. Chapter 95

Quick one-scene update as Thanksgiving continues and gets even more adrenaline-filled. Three, two, one . . .

(H/C)

House and Wilson re-entered the house quietly and removed their coats, House trying to be just a piece of the background and remain unnoticed as long as possible. That lasted well less than a minute, due to his own actions.

Voices were buzzing all around, the ebb and flow of conversation at any large gathering, and there happened to be one of those unplanned coordinated pauses in all words just in time for one female voice from the living room to be heard clearly in the gap. "My grandmother used to have one of these. Beautiful instrument. I even picked out tunes on the weekends sometimes while I was staying with her." It was the voice of one of the women, the first one, from the porch conversation a few minutes ago. House's head snapped up, and he surged quickly forward through the back hall toward the living room, bumping into people and not even noticing, much less caring. The piano sobbed out perhaps five notes of a stumbling, one-fingered attempt at a tune by the hunt-and-peck method, and then House hit the living room like a tidal wave.

"What the HELL are you doing?"

All conversation skidded to a dead halt as every head turned toward him. House limped quickly toward his baby grand, his body taut with tension, his blue eyes absolutely on fire. This was one of the gossipers, but all memory of her discussion of his father was forgotten right now. He was only seeing her hands on the keyboard. "Get away from it!" he demanded. "That's MINE. Off, off, OFF!"

The guilty relative stared at him, then quickly vacated the bench, slipping off the far side safely away from his approach of wrath, keeping the bulky instrument as a barrier of protection between them. House put one hand on the glossy lid of his most prized possession as he reached the foot of it. "You don't play it, don't touch it, don't even _breathe_ on it." He paused, his own breathing accelerated, and then looked around as he suddenly felt the eyes. Everyone's eyes on him, watching, assessing, fitting his touchiness into his background story. It was like watching a foreign movie with subtitles, everybody in the audience getting one collective translation of the words. He could almost hear the thoughts. _Poor Greg, I'll bet he didn't get to have special things when he was growing up. Such a pathetic story. Of course he's sensitive about things being his. We have to make allowances. _

Every person there in unison, reading his outrage only in the context of his father. It pissed him off even more. "Don't _ever_ touch a real musician's instruments. ANYBODY objects to that!"

Cuddy had been getting something out of the oven. She had overheard the initial comment about the piano and immediately started hurrying up her task, but she also had thought that House was still outside, having seen him with Wilson at the far side of the back yard just a few minutes ago as she passed a window. With the oncologist being with him just now, her main attention at that moment was on the last preparations for dinner, and she set the hot pan down carefully before starting for the living room to intervene and enforce some musical rules before House came back in. Too late. The explosion reverberated through the entire house, and she firmly pushed her own way through the audience. House looked so mad he was just about quivering with fury, and she, too, sensed the unspoken judgment being passed from every watcher and was annoyed herself by it. House's childhood had become the ever-present antecedent to explain every single action. "Greg," she called as she pushed through the crowd, deciding after one look at his eyes that she needed to calm him down first before she killed a relative (although that was definitely on the agenda as a close second). He looked ready to kill somebody himself.

Wilson was closer, having caught back up with House now after his friend's initial surge forward, and he made the mistake of putting a hand on House's arm and speaking soothingly. "Take it easy, House."

House jerked his arm away and glared daggers at his friend. "Take it _easy_? Coming from the alleged friend who stole and threatened my guitar with disassembly, of course. What the hell would you know about it?"

Cuddy pushed up to him. "Greg," she started, wondering how best to get him to calm down - he wasn't breathing right - and leave execution to her. There was no reproach in her eyes or her tone, though, simply outraged understanding, carefully not trivializing the insult.

Rachel unwittingly saved the day. Before Cuddy could get further, Rachel suddenly provided a new focus of attention as she advanced toward the guilty relative. "NO!" she scolded. "Wrong! You do it wrong!"

House snickered suddenly, and Cuddy, sensing the tension in him ebb minutely, left it in Rachel's hands at the moment to see where this went. Rachel definitely had the floor; the room full of guests might have been statues at a wax museum. You could have heard a pin drop. Cuddy moved up close beside House and waited but didn't make Wilson's mistake of touching him right now. "She is pretty awful at it, isn't she?" House noted.

Rachel nodded vigorously, her eyes still on her target. She tugged at the woman's arm. "BAD. Wrong. You listen." Turning around, she trotted across to her father, absolutely oblivious of the atmosphere of the room. "Dada, you show. Do it right. Teach."

House stared down into her serious eyes, and his smirk faded. "Rachel, I can't teach her how like that . . . people can't pick up how to play just by hearing a song done right." Her look of childish confidence was unwavering. "Most people can't," he amended, as she had multiple times heard him play something he'd only heard once.

"You show," she insisted. She grasped his hand and tugged him toward the keyboard.

House sighed. He hated playing in front of an audience at the best of times, which this definitely wasn't. Everybody there still had that horrible pity in their eyes, reading his objection in the sole context of his past.

Rachel was nothing if not persistent. "You show," she demanded.

House looked at Cuddy helplessly, and she shrugged, but he saw the smile in her eyes - and the worry behind the smile. With another sigh, he slid onto the bench, suddenly grateful that he had taken the Ativan not long ago. The drug was short-acting, but he could still lean against the effect of it somewhat if he wanted to, trying to forget the eyes and remind himself of the music. Rachel looked at the offending relative. "You watch!" she instructed firmly. House gave the piano a pat as if apologizing for its insult from less skilled hands, hesitated a moment, mentally choosing, then began. He chose one of the hardest and showiest things he could think of; if everybody was staring at him already, damn it, maybe he could at least wipe a little bit of that suffocating pity out of their eyes. Rachel leaned against the side of the piano bench, watching his limber fingers, the other woman already forgotten. The only thing that mattered to her at the moment was that her father was playing.

The tactic worked, as the attention of the room, while still solely on him, shifted slowly from psychological analysis to pure admiration. Cuddy took advantage of everyone else's distraction to grasp the accused by the elbow and propel her firmly into the kitchen. Sandra was there, just returning to meal preparations after the time-out, but Sandra was as good at selective deafness as Belle and diligently ignored them. Cuddy turned on her target, her voice quite low but her eyes blazing just as much as House's had been. Court was now in session. "What the hell do you think you were you doing?"

"I didn't say anything about his past or the news," the woman protested. "I didn't even realize he was in the room right then. How was I supposed to know he'd be so touchy over some little thing like that? Did his father. . ."

Cuddy tightened her grip painfully on the woman's arm. "He was mad because, like he said, ANY serious musician will blow a gasket if you mess with their instruments without permission."

"My grandmother never minded at all." The protest was weak, though. Cuddy thought the other woman looked both guilty and extremely rattled and nervous. Good.

"This isn't your grandmother's house," she pointed out coldly. "And she clearly wasn't a serious musician if she didn't have rules and limits for it."

"I didn't know he was right there, Lisa. I sure never expected him to react like that; I was just admiring the piano. And I _didn't_ say anything in front of him. I'm trying to follow the rules here, but you never told us not to . . ."

"Try harder," Cuddy interrupted, her tone icy. "I apologize for not being more explicit in directions, but I was expecting people to use at least _some_ common sense of their own. You can tell just looking at it what a prize that instrument is. You don't paw all over it, whether you think he's around or not. For the rest of the day, I'll give you one simple rule you can live with: If you wouldn't do it or say it while visiting Buckingham Palace, don't try it here. Understood?"

The woman nodded, swallowing hard. Cuddy looked every bit as dangerous now as House had a few minutes ago, and the guest was starting to wonder just how many residents of this household were in need of therapy. "Get back out there," Cuddy directed. "We're all having a nice, routine, _calm_ family Thanksgiving. But I'm watching you. Next time you even think of doing something wrong, whether I mentioned it on the list or not, you'll leave - permanently."

The woman gulped again and turned, edging tentatively back toward the living room, eager to escape. Cuddy followed her to the edge of the people, looking across the room toward House. House had switched pieces by now, no longer grandstanding, no longer so aware of the crowd. Rachel had climbed up or been lifted up onto the bench beside him on his left, and he was playing something obviously by request for her, a song from one of her Disney movies. Abby was being held by a great-aunt at the moment, but she was ignoring her admirers with her head turned toward the music. Slowly, the conversation of the gathering lurched back into gear around them. Wilson was standing beside the piano like a sentinel, a physical buffer between House and Rachel and the rest of the room, and his eyes met Cuddy's across the room as he gave a reassuring nod. Situation under control at the moment.

Cuddy let out a deep breath and returned to the kitchen. The sooner the meal was finished, the sooner they could get the family day over with. She never should have let House tell Susan to continue with today, should have tackled him physically across the table Tuesday night and fought him for possession of the cell phone, regardless of their daughters watching. Or should have simply not answered the call and lied to him about who it was. Or _something_. Once Susan had heard his clear alleged preference directly from him, Cuddy couldn't possibly have convinced her mother that wasn't what he wanted even by calling back later, but she wished now that she could do Tuesday night over and prevent his opportunity. He was simply under too much stress at the moment to have this added.

Also, the realization of what Patrick had done was settling onto her in new depth. Like her family, the staff of PPTH and everybody else would henceforth be trying to interpret any quirk, of which House certainly had plenty, in the light of John, determined to fit all pegs regardless of shape into the one hole. She knew it was impossible to distill the essence of House to just one ingredient; he was the most deliciously complicated man she had ever met. But everybody would want to try, at least for a while. She sighed. Sandra, going by with a platter, reached out briefly and wordlessly to touch her arm and give it a light squeeze.

Susan was in the doorway of the kitchen, looking from Cuddy back toward the living room and back again. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I suppose Greg wasn't allowed to have anything that really mattered to him while he was . . ." Cuddy's sub-zero glare froze the comment in its track. Susan looked away. "Right. I think I'll check on that turkey."


	96. Chapter 96

A/N: Short update as Thanksgiving is ALMOST over. I think a lot of people will especially like the next chapter after this one, though; it's one of my favorites in the story, and I think it will be for you, too. One simple request. I don't usually ask, but please send reviews. I need some encouragement today, even if just about fiction. This has been a tough week, and yesterday especially was a tough day. My new musical group is going marvelously, but Mom is not, even requiring an extra trip yesterday that cost me a rehearsal, and as usual, family just isn't there, and my "urgent problem with Mom, going down to the nursing home" email drew not even a shrug from the siblings by the time I got home hours later, or even by today, much later. I'm writing this for stress release for myself, which writing is, but I could really use knowing today that _somebody_ is out there who notices what I'm doing.

(H/C)

"Dinner is ready," Cuddy announced with relief. "Everybody please head toward the table. We won't all fit, but we'll start out as a family there anyway." The group started shifting that direction.

House resolved the tonic on his latest piece, then set Rachel down carefully and stood. "Be there in a minute," he said and disappeared down the hall. Wilson watched him go, curious; House looked like he was on a specific mission that was more than just going to the bathroom. The oncologist started to follow him, but Cuddy cut him off and pursued her husband herself.

House was in their bedroom in the lengthy process of shaking out the appropriate dose on all of his meds. He looked up as Cuddy entered. "If they saw this, they'd think they were all psych meds," he complained. "Stuff to help me deal with things, since everything ties into that now. They already think I'm borderline psychotic as well as a pitiful story."

Cuddy shook her head. "They do _not_ think you're a pitiful story."

"I notice you didn't counter their opinion on the borderline psychotic bit." He capped the final bottle and stared at his handful of pills.

Cuddy hurried forward to pick up a glass of water from the bedside table and push it firmly into his hand. "Look on the bright side, Greg. I'm sure that _nobody_ for the rest of today would dare touch your piano." He laughed and accepted the water, gulping down his cocktail of pain meds and omeprazole.

"You holding up okay?" she asked, running a hand along his arm.

He hesitated, then nodded. "The piano was the worst." That was actually true, even given the backyard conversation she didn't know about. The offense against his beloved piano had hit him harder.

She kissed him. "Let's go eat, Greg. Then after the meal, we can start booting them out."

He gave her a weak grin. "Sounds like a plan."

(H/C)

The group pressed in around the big dining room table, a more than capacity crowd. Cuddy lifted her wine glass. "We appreciate you all coming today," she lied smoothly, "to celebrate our daughter. You all know what happened a year ago and for months afterward. Today, I'm so thankful to say that Abby is perfectly healthy and growing, and our family is doing very well. So I'd like to propose a Thanksgiving toast. To family." Her eyes were on House as she said it, letting him know that her definition was the narrow one of the household, not the present crowd, but she really was thankful for everything she had now. He clicked his wine glass against hers.

"To family," came the echoes around the table.

"Okay, due to sheer numbers, we can't all fit, but there's a small table in the kitchen, plenty of seats around the living room. Everybody fill your plates and dig in." Cuddy sat down at the big table herself, and the general business of stacking the plates with food at Thanksgiving began. House was sitting next to her, a high chair between. He would be feeding Abby as she fed Rachel on her other side. Susan had, of course, volunteered to feed a kid, but Cuddy thought that the assignment would help House, as well as the reminder of Abby, whom they really were grateful for. Slowly the family sorted themselves out, those who couldn't fit around the table heading elsewhere, and everybody started to eat. Conversation was somewhat awkward, but nobody made a frontal assault on the topic they all were thinking of.

House stared at his plate. So much food, prepared correctly and not as a punishment. So many people around - oblivious idiots, several of them, but nobody here was actually any danger. The knot in his stomach was still there, though, remembering John, remembering the silent undertones at any public gathering. He could still feel undertones right now. Different ones, but the sense of unspoken subtext remained.

Abby tapped on his arm gently, and he looked over at her. "More," she requested. "Peas."

Smiling, he scooped up another spoonful of her Thanksgiving mush, and the ghost of John retreated a bit.

(H/C)

The dinner was over. One car of relatives had just left, and Cuddy was rinsing and straightening dishes, putting away leftovers. Several of the women were in the kitchen now, of course, insisting on helping clean up after the big meal, and Cuddy tolerated it only because she knew they would leave that much quicker with it done instead of hanging around feeling guilty that it wasn't. But this Thanksgiving cleanup was definitely a warp speed performance.

Wilson appeared, putting a hand on her arm and pulling her gently to one side. "Cuddy," he whispered, "I can't find him. It's been 30 minutes."

She frowned, looking at her watch. House had disappeared after dinner, which hadn't surprised her. "Did you look . . ."

"Outside, inside, everywhere. Car and bike are still here. I hope he's not bothering Jensen again."

She straightened up. "He called _Jensen_ earlier?"

Wilson nodded. "On his day off, just to see if he'd pick up. Can you believe that? Anyway, wherever he is, he's found a good spot."

She sighed and thrust her current dish into his hands. "Help out cleaning up," she commanded, and then she headed firmly out of the kitchen. A quick scan of the house confirmed Wilson's impression, and then she stopped in the bedroom, thinking. He was still around; she could sense that. The house lacked the emptiness it always had during his absence. He hadn't simply retreated for a break this time, though. He was deliberately hiding. He must be absolutely at the limit for the day. She knew also, since he'd told her last night, that Jensen had given him permission to call. Obviously Wilson didn't know that, and obviously House hadn't told him. House definitely hadn't had a chance to call Jensen since the piano incident. Whatever they had talked about had happened earlier, and she'd missed that set of rapids in his day. She looked around, then hesitated, her eyes on the closed door of the closet, remembering that he had apparently retreated there Tuesday night, by the evidence of the pillows and bedspread. But surely Wilson would have looked.

She opened the door and looked around. At first glance, it was empty. Cuddy, however, didn't stop at first glance. It was a fairly large closet, and to one side, underneath the hanging clothes and against the far wall, there was what looked like a row of spare blankets, neatly folded. They were, however, in a row rather than in a stack on the shelf above where they should have been. She pulled the clothes back.

House was in the floor, legs stretched out, camouflage blankets arranged to hide his black slacks and his shoes. Belle was on top of him, and they met Cuddy's look with a mutual challenge. Neither of them intended to socialize any more today. Cuddy gave him a sympathetic smile. "Had enough?"

"More than enough. Belle and I officially quit for today. I'm just sitting here trying to think of good things."

That sounded so much like a Jensen quote that it reminded her. "Wilson said you called Jensen earlier."

"I'm sure Wilson also said I was just being a jerk and seeing if he'd pick up."

"Yes, he did. I can't believe he fell for that."

House shrugged. "He's not quite at his best today. Keeping up his own front with Sandra in front of everybody."

"What did you call Jensen about?"

He tilted his head toward the floor, an obvious invitation, and she folded herself to the floor with enviable grace and snuggled in next to her husband and the cat. "I . . ." He hesitated, obviously editing. "I was starting to panic again about Monday. He helped."

She sighed. She knew there were untold details there, but she couldn't really push him on the exact content of therapeutic conversations with Jensen. That was one of the rules. It was his choice to share however much he wanted to from his sessions with no pressure for more. "Today was a mistake," she said. "There's just too much going on right now."

House nodded. "I should have told your mother to call it all off. I'm sorry." They melted together for an extended kiss, and Belle lashed her tail as her platform of repose shifted.

"I should have ripped that cell phone back away from you. _I'm_ sorry," she said once they parted for breath, and they quickly entered round two.

"I'm sorrier than you are," House insisted a minute later, his eyes sparkling. Belle stood and stalked out of the closet, getting annoyed with the increasingly physical action that was disrupting her nap.

Cuddy shook her head vigorously once she could breathe again a few minutes after that. "You couldn't possibly be sorrier than I am. I'm much more sorry." They were locked together again, things heating up nicely now.

It wasn't lack of oxygen but concern that split them apart that time. An absolute shriek - cry was too weak a word - echoed through the house, and they parted immediately. "That's Abby," Cuddy stated, but neither of them had ever heard her like that.

"Go on!" House urged her as he started to laboriously pry himself up from the closet floor. Leaving him behind, Cuddy raced into the living room.

Abby was currently being held by one of the relatives, with a knot of several others hovering around in concern, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs, screaming as if she had never in her life been dependent on a respirator. It was so out of character for their quiet, observant daughter that even Rachel was staring in astonishment. Cuddy hurried across the room, reaching out for the baby. Abby shut off like somebody had turned a volume knob and snuggled into her mother's arms.

"What happened to her?" Cuddy demanded, trying to do a quick physical exam.

Several people spoke at once. "I have no idea." "Nobody hurt her." "She just started screaming suddenly." "What's wrong, Abby?"

House made a delayed entrance onto the scene at his fastest limp. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure. She seems okay now." He took their younger daughter from her, conducting his own brief exam. Abby snuggled up against him, looking far more satisfied than upset.

It was the self-satisfied expression that did it, and House grinned as the truth hit him. "What is it, Greg?" Cuddy asked, still concerned.

"Need to test a theory," he asked. He handed Abby off to the nearest guest, and it was like flipping a switch. Immediately she was absolutely screaming again, fighting, pushing the hands away. Not hurt but mad. House took her back, and the cries shut off instantly.

Wilson laughed. "I think she's simply had enough of being passed around like a trading card."

Cuddy was staring at their daughter. "She's never done anything like that before." Abby was always so quiet, so controlled. Rachel was the tantrum-thrower.

"First time for everything," House noted. He handed her off again, with the expected result, then took her back.

Rachel tossed in her wise opinion. "Abby tired. Naptime."

"They actually haven't had a nap since everybody got here," Cuddy said. "I think they both need a nap."

"NO!" Rachel immediately objected at being included on the nap list.

One by one, the relatives started for their coats, leaving the rest of the clean-up unfinished. "The girls are clearly getting tired." "It has been a long day for them." "We have a long drive home." "Thank you so much for dinner, but we'd really better be going and let the girls get some rest." Cuddy sensed the tide going out and went around making sure no belongings had been left, gently urging them toward the door.

House, holding Abby, looked down into her eyes. They met his, the same blue, the same intelligence, the same scheming light behind them. Yes, she looked tired, but she also looked absolutely calculating and assured of her victory. It was like looking into the mirror. Abby, too, had simply had enough of today, and for the first time in her life, she had emphatically made her point.

"Attagirl," he said softly, admiringly, as the relatives neatly and almost in a line filed out the door.


	97. Chapter 97

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Much better week so far this week, just frantically busy, but I knew things would be. The performances on my new group are the first full week of April. Till then, I'm lucky to have time to turn around. Enjoy this chapter, which I have a feeling a lot of you will. I've loved this last scene since my muse came up with it.

(H/C)

Cuddy tucked the last container of leftovers into the fridge and gave a sigh. Not all dishes done yet, though the dishwasher was chugging away on the first load, but she was starting to feel like her house was being claimed back.

Sandra gave her a sympathetic grin as she finished stacking the remainder of the dishes and then stepped back, dusting her hands off dramatically. "We'd better get going. I'm sure you're ready to evict the world."

Cuddy nodded. "Frankly, yes. What a day."

"It's almost over." Sandra moved a little closer and dropped her voice. "If there is anything at all I can do to help out the next few days, let me know. I'm sure you'll be getting ready for Monday's hearing. If you need errands or somebody to watch the girls for a while so you two can get a break or anything, just call."

"Thank you," Cuddy said sincerely. "Marina said she'd be on call with the girls, but I hate to bother her family time. You could probably spare it better." She skidded to a stop, suddenly struck by her insensitivity. "Not that . . . I just meant I know things are awkward now, and you might want . . .I'm sorry, I'm too tired right now to realize half of what I'm saying." Immediately, the image of herself and House making out in the floor of their closet sprang to the front of her mind.

Sandra looked wistful. "It's okay. I was looking forward to this 4-day weekend, but it's not going to be the one I wanted with or without you interfering. But I'm sure you could say the same. We deal with what we have to. Give me a call if you need me, okay?"

Cuddy smiled at her. "I will. Thank you, Sandra." Wilson, she thought privately, was an absolute idiot. Not just physically but in personality, Sandra was so far superior to some random catch in a bar that even drunk, he should have been more repelled than attracted.

Together, the women went into the living room, where Wilson was sitting on the edge of his chair enduring what Robert and Susan thought was pleasant conversation about his current life and his relationship. He bounced up like a jack-in-the-box. "All done in the kitchen?"

Sandra gave a weak laugh. "Hardly, but it's as good as it's going to get for now. Let's go home, James."

He had started for the door eagerly, making his escape, but his stride slowed halfway as he obviously recalled that what waited at home in terms of awkwardness wasn't an improvement. "Right. Happy Thanksgiving, Cuddy. Thank you for dinner." He came over to give her a hug. "Hang in there," he said softly.

"Thank you for helping him out today," she replied, also softly. That was absolutely sincere. Wilson might be an idiot, but he was still a good friend to House, and he had helped today.

He gave a final squeeze and let her go. "Call me if you guys need anything this weekend, okay? I can run an errand or give you a break or whatever."

"We will," Cuddy promised him. Wilson and Sandra headed out the door with mutual reluctance, returning to their own issues. Once the door closed behind them, Susan stood.

"Lisa, I really think your father and I ought to just head on home tonight. I'm sure you've had enough of dealing with company today. You and Greg need some time alone."

Cuddy was opening her mouth to agree when House, coming down the hall from the nursery, cut her off. "No, you definitely need to stay until tomorrow."

They all turned to him in surprise, gauging his sincerity. He certainly looked like he meant it. "We _want_ you here tonight," he insisted. "Lisa's worn out and needs to sleep straight through tonight, and I'd hate to deprive you of the fun of dealing with your grandkids a little longer. Not to mention depriving us of free babysitting. They're both asleep - finally - shouldn't give you any trouble. Lisa and I are going out for a while on an important errand, and when we come back, we're going to bed. They're all yours."

Cuddy frowned. "_What _important errand?" She studied him, again trying to decipher the layers of tone. He looked keyed up and tense, which he had all day, but even more wired under that.

Robert was watching him closely. "Sure you want us to stay, son?" The endearment slipped out unnoticed.

"Yes," House insisted, and nobody could doubt the sincerity of that reply. "Stay tonight. Like I said, they're all yours. Come on, Lisa, grab your coat."

"Where are we going?" she asked, still confused.

"To the hospital," he replied as if the answer were obvious. "I left something in my office that we need. Let's go."

Susan was looking puzzled thoroughly now. An escape date she could understand after today, but going back to work? "If you're sure you want us around, Greg."

"Through tonight, yes," he reiterated. "Believe me, we'll kick you out tomorrow. But for tonight, stay and take care of the girls."

"What did you leave in your office?" Cuddy asked, bewildered. Her tired brain couldn't follow his thoughts at all right now, and it annoyed her.

"You'll see. Come on." He retrieved her coat himself and pushed it into her arms.

Giving in, she slipped her arms into the sleeves. "I'll have my cell phone if you need us, Mother, but they're so worn out they'll probably sleep soundly for a good while."

Susan nodded. "I'll work on the rest of the dishes in the kitchen. Have a good . . . um . . . trip back to work."

Once outside, Cuddy turned to face House. "Okay, Greg, where are we really going?"

"To the hospital," he repeated, heading briskly for the car. "I had an idea while I was rocking Rachel to sleep and thinking about good things."

"What's the idea?"

"Get in. I'll tell you on the way."

(H/C)

His office was dark and empty as if even the room were having a 4-day weekend. House entered and then stopped in the middle of the floor, looking around. Cuddy flipped on the light, then carefully locked the door behind them and pulled the blinds, also those to the conference room. House slowly shrugged out of his coat and dropped it on the Eames chair. His nose twitched. "Can you still smell it?" he asked.

"No," she replied, giving him the honest answer. She took off her own coat and then put it neatly across the Eames chair, straightening his out as well. She didn't ask if he could still smell it; he obviously could. His breathing had already sped up since they entered the office.

In increasing slow motion, House took off his shoes, then lowered himself to the floor, lying down on his back in the middle of the room. In the next second, he lurched back up to a sitting position as the waves of carpet glue and memories surged in with double force. He could feel sweat breaking out.

"Easy." Cuddy walked over to the balcony door and propped it open a few inches, shivering at the blast of November that entered. "The past is over, Greg. All that's here now is the present and the future."

He gulped down deep breaths for a minute. "Close the door again," he told her finally.

"You sure?"

Irritation flared up. "Yes, damn it, close the door. I've got to . . ." He looked away, suddenly ashamed of snapping at her.

"It's okay, Greg. We'll do this however you need to. Just let me know." She closed the door, then turned back to him.

Once again, he lay down flat on the floor. She could see his breathing accelerating from where she stood by the balcony door, and sweat was standing out on his forehead, but he stayed fully down that time. She gave him a minute, letting him take the lead, then slowly approached.

This time, she had forced herself on the drive over to think about process, to picture how John House had done it, as much as it made her cringe. Thus she was careful not to smile, though she still let the love shine through her eyes, the love that John House couldn't possibly have possessed. She had decided that probably the biggest thing would be to avoid looming over him, standing directly above while he was lying down, which was why she had held her distance somewhat to this point. House closed his eyes, then opened them quickly, finding her again like a lifeline. She watched his breathing. "Do you need a little more air again first?"

He shook his head. "Come on."

She took a few steps closer but still stopped a few feet to the side, carefully not looming. "Look at me, Greg," she urged him. "_Look_ at me. This is what you have now. Not the past. Love is stronger than the past." One by one, in deliberate slow motion, she started undoing the buttons on her blouse. Her lithe, supple body moved in a graceful dance as the clothes piece by piece hit the floor. When she was down to just her underwear, she unclipped her bra and spun, twirling it, giving him the complete 360-degree view. The last impediment to her tingling skin was removed, and she dropped to her knees, getting more on his level, and approached him from the side. Her breasts swayed to her movements as she slowly, gradually, _lovingly_ undressed him, and by the time they were both fully naked, more than just his memories was at full attention. They melted together on the new carpet.


	98. Chapter 98

Cuddy woke up feeling guiltily lazy after a complete night of sleep undisturbed by the girls. She quickly turned to the clock as the early sunlight through the windows accused her, then turned to House.

He was awake and watching her, a smile hovering around his blue eyes. "Chase owes me $50. I bet him that you couldn't possibly sleep past 7:00 and would feel guilty even at that."

"You bet Chase . . ." Rising to the bait, Cuddy pushed herself up onto her elbow in annoyance, then studied his expression more closely. "No, you didn't. You're just trying to get a rise out of me."

"I thought about calling Chase and placing a bet. And as thousands of people through history have said, it's the thought that counts." His smile broadened as he studied her breasts, exposed as the sheet fell away. In the next second, his expression changed, and he reached out to gently stroke her left elbow. She looked at it herself at the sting and studied the rug burn from the previous night.

"I didn't even realize I'd done that," she said. She stretched and rolled, taking inventory and finding a few more sore spots. Sitting all the way up, she reached over to pull the covers off him, taking a visual inspection. He, too, had a few patches of slightly abraded skin. "Tonight we'll take a blanket," she stated firmly.

"Why wait for tonight?" he asked. "It's a holiday weekend; the hospital will be slower, even during the day. Nothing stopping us from walking right across that lobby at noon, blanket in hand. I'm sure nobody would even notice us."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "_Tonight_," she repeated firmly. "After visiting hours, when it's pretty dead on the fourth floor. I had offers from Sandra and from Wilson both to do anything at all to help us this weekend, so we won't be short of babysitters. Actually, Marina said she'd come back, too, but she's got a family."

House's expression changed, the earlier playfulness melting away at the thought of this weekend's final preparation. "Right. We've got a lot of other things to do. Trigger practice, plus Jensen Saturday, probably the prosecutor Sunday, he said, and then . . ." The agenda trailed off.

Cuddy stroked his arm. "We'll be ready, Greg. Patrick doesn't stand a chance." She stood up. "Want a massage? I'll bet you have more sore points than I do from last night." That had been the wrong thing to say, she realized instantly, too direct a reminder of his disability. While Cuddy was questing for any recovery comment to bring that playful light back into his eyes, Rachel was suddenly heard at increasing volume, protesting something Susan was doing.

"I think no is her favorite word," House said, but he sounded distracted, still stuck back in the weekend's preparations.

"She's two, Greg. Almost. It comes with the territory. Two and three, right about then, all kids love to say no and argue with anything."

He stared at the far wall. "I didn't," he stated simply. "Not then, anyway." Cuddy was once again seized with compassion for that lost, confused child, trying to understand the hostility he could sense from John, even before that hostility had burst into full flame. No, she was sure House hadn't argued at first with his father. Later, sure, just out of defiance, but at first, he would have been walking on eggshells while he still thought his actions might successfully forestall whatever punishment.

She came over to his side of the bed. "I'm sorry, Greg," she said sincerely. She leaned in for the kiss. He was the one who broke it a minute later.

"You'd better go on before your mother loses control."

"Mother won't lose control," Cuddy predicted. "On the other hand, Rachel probably won't give up, either, not to her. This might be the irresistible force meeting the immovable object."

He shook his head. "Your mother is not an immovable object. She's _definitely_ a movable object, because we are going to throw her and your father out this morning. Let's go."

Cuddy grinned. "Well, when you put it that way." She turned toward the door to go rescue her daughter, or her mother, or her own sanity, or House's. "Mom's probably already got breakfast ready for us. See you in a few minutes, and then we'll kick them out together."

He slowly shifted, carefully sitting up on the side of the bed, testing his leg. "Sounds like a plan."

(H/C)

Abby laughed. It was contagious, and Rachel followed suit. Cuddy smiled, watching them.

The whole family was in the hot tub at the moment. After kicking out Robert and Susan, they had spent the morning building another snowman, practicing being outside in the cold so that they could practice having fun in it and then going inside whenever they wished. Not that the girls realized that. Now they all were warming up in the hot tub together.

The object of Abby's amusement was the ice. Every time Cuddy let a few chips fall into the hot tub, Abby would watch them melt with rapt attention, even reaching out toward them once, though Cuddy held onto her her firmly with her non ice hand.

Rachel, in House's arms, was harder to restrain. She plunged forward suddenly, nearly escaping his grip, swatting wildly at the ice chips. Cuddy dropped the next few right in front of her, trying to save House having to hold her back as much, and Rachel reached out in an effort to capture them. They melted rapidly, dwindling to nothingness in her hand, and she stared at her empty palm accusingly. Abby laughed again, and Rachel, who had been wavering between amusement and annoyance, saw the joke herself. "Game," she chirped happily. "Mama, Dada, game!"

Cuddy looked at House. He was still in a tug-of-war with the memories, she could tell. He was still tense, his eyes fixed to the melting chips, though he was putting up a fight to stay focused, and this was a little better than the first time. She knew they wouldn't win over decades of thoughts of the past with only one repetition. But his eyes also held a bittersweet amusement. To Rachel, this truly was just a game. She would never know the other meaning, at least not by personal experience.

"She doesn't know," she said. "She'll never know, not like you did."

Rachel turned to her mother, hearing what she thought was her favorite word stolen. "NO!" she scolded, claiming proprietory rights.

House laughed himself that time, and the shadows of the past retreated another reluctant step.

(H/C)

Cuddy opened the door that evening to Sandra. "Thank you so much for doing this," she said. "They just went to bed; we've been playing hard all day. You shouldn't have any trouble with them."

"They're never any trouble anyway," Sandra assured her. "At least as long as they aren't being passed around a few dozen people all day. One thing about yesterday, I think you can rest assured that Abby's lungs are fully developed now."

Cuddy smiled. "Good point. Anyway, thanks. I hope I didn't disturb . . . whatever you were doing tonight."

"Sitting at home alone," Sandra replied. "James got called into the hospital about noon; patient took a bad turn. We're not really ready to talk anyway, but tonight, he's not even there. So I was totally free."

House came down the hall. "Out like lights," he announced. "Let's go, Cuddy."

"Just a minute. I want to kiss them goodbye." She disappeared toward the nursery, and House faced Sandra.

"Babysitting solo tonight?"

"He got called to the hospital. One of his patients crashed."

A fleeting expression of sympathy crossed his face, hidden in the next second. "Well, at least that still leaves us one candidate for free babysitting tonight." Sandra grinned. Cuddy had offered on the phone to pay, which Sandra had turned down. "So Cuddy and I can go do . . . other things. Oh, by the way." He edged in closer and dropped his voice. "Congratulations."

Sandra looked at House, puzzled. "Congratulations?"

"Congratulations."

Her eyes widened. "You mean . . ."

Cuddy bustled back down the hall at that point. "All ready, Greg?"

"I wasn't the one keeping us waiting," he pointed out. "So long, Sandra."

"Thanks again," Cuddy repeated, then hesitated on her way out the door, looking at the younger woman. "Are you okay? You look . . ."

"Yeah. I'm fine. Go on; I'll call you if anything comes up with them, but I'm sure it won't." Sandra closed the door behind them, then stood in the middle of the living room, a mind that had already been torn in multiple directions suddenly gaining speed, chasing thoughts in circles, almost making her dizzy.


	99. Chapter 99

Very short update squeezed in while waiting for a long job to download. More of Friday night still to come. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Wilson slunk guiltily into the bar as if he were a minor trying to pass a fake ID. The post-Thanksgiving crowd was fairly large, mostly people without family who were trying to convince themselves it didn't matter, but he hardly saw the others. His mind's eye was still focused on the 9-year-old boy who had died tonight. The boy had put up a brave fight - for all the good it had done. His parents now had a new memory for the future to attach to Thanksgiving.

Losing the children always hit Wilson the hardest. It had been a few months since he had lost one, and on that occasion, he had gone home to Sandra. She had tried to get him to talk, but he had wanted distraction instead, which she willingly provided after extracting the barest thumbnail sketch of his day from him. Wilson knew that his chances at that kind of reception from Sandra tonight were sub zero, and he also knew that was his own stupid fault, which didn't really help his depression much. House was also a great post patient death companion, but House was obviously also unavailable tonight. Sandra had left a voice mail earlier on Wilson's phone, just telling him she had agreed to babysit at House and Cuddy's tonight while they went out and that she hoped his patient could turn around. Wherever House and Cuddy had gone, Wilson knew that he would be extremely persona non grata. Cuddy would probably decapitate him for disturbing their evening if he even called, much less tried to find his friend. There was Jensen, but Jensen was off today, enjoying Thanksgiving with his own family. Wilson doubted he'd even pick up if he saw the oncologist's number on caller ID, not even as much as he had given House on House's obnoxious "this is a test" call earlier. Maybe Jensen had stayed in Princeton for Wilson last year, but nothing could ever convince the oncologist that House wasn't his favorite patient with extra attention and benefits applied. Jensen had very clearly said that he was completely unavailable yesterday and today and that any urgent calls should go to his office number, which would be forwarded to his coverage. Also, no doubt Jensen would be getting some with Melissa later tonight, as would House and Cuddy, as would the entire world except James Evan Wilson, MD. Which again was his own stupid fault.

No, nobody among his circle was available tonight to share in the memory of his dead patient or to provide diversion. All Wilson wanted to do was to forget cancer for a while, but he would have no help in that. They were all busy with other things.

He slid onto a bar stool, still feeling absurdly as if he should provide ID and credentials for being here and might get tossed out even then. "Double scotch," he requested. The drink arrived in front of him, and he savored the sharp burn of the liquor. Ah yes, _this_ was an extended, if only occasional, support in his life. The alcohol at least was there and didn't have better things to do. Guilt gnawed again at him, thoughts of Sandra. There were some women here tonight, but Wilson wasn't even seeing them.

He loved her. He really did love her, but he probably had totally lost his chance. Of all the stupid things to do. He should have done so much differently that night, but even at the end, he should have just gotten drunk alone and returned solo to his room.

His lips quirked in a humorless smile. See, he _could_ change. He had learned and retained at least one lesson. Tonight, it was just the alcohol that was the comfort; he would not be looking for anything else. Just one drink, maybe two, enough to numb out the memory of the dead boy a bit, and then he would return home to the couch of remorse. He swirled the glass, admiring the liquid. Yes, it was always faithful to him. Tonight, he'd be faithful to it with no additional lover. He gulped down the rest of the drink, feeling the burn all the way down, although lessening a bit now. He remembered that he hadn't eaten yet; probably shouldn't have too much. One more wouldn't hurt, though. He nodded at the bartender for a refill.

While waiting, he pulled out his cell phone and called up a picture of Sandra, studying her face. _This nearly was mine,_ he thought, the lyrics from South Pacific suddenly springing to his mind. Lost in reverie and self-recrimination, he didn't notice the bartender approach again, and the glass being set down at his elbow made him jump. He dropped the cell phone on the bar, picture still displayed on the screen.

"Problems with your woman?" the bartender asked, looking at the picture.

Wilson nodded. "I was an idiot."

"So apologize to her. Grovel. They like that."

He sighed. "I've been groveling all week."

"Oh. You mean you were _really_ an idiot."

"Yeah." Wilson took a sip of his second drink. "I . . . cheated on her a few weeks ago." It was the first time he had actually stated it bluntly instead of dancing around with words and excuses.

The bartender studied Sandra. "Why?" he asked, puzzled. "Getting tired of her?"

"No, she's great. It's . . . I was just down. I'd had some bad family news. I was off at a conference and went to a bar and got drunk, and I wound up leaving with somebody. Should have gone home alone." He took a second sip. "Should have called her in the first place to talk. _Idiot._"

"So she threw you out," the bartender said sympathetically.

"No, actually, she's still thinking about things."

The bartender put down his cloth. "She's still thinking about things? Then what the hell are you doing sitting here drinking?"

Wilson looked around, suddenly seeing his surroundings for the first time. "I . . . I'm not sure. I just wanted one drink; I'm not going to do anything stupid."

The bartender shook his head. "You really _are_ an idiot. And you're already past one drink, and we both know you wouldn't stop with that one, either. Something happen tonight that got you down more?"

He nodded. "I lost a patient. I'm a doctor."

"Go tell her that. She'll sympathize. Women are good at the sympathy, even when they're mad, and if she hasn't thrown you out yet with several days since you cheated to think about it, she's probably leaning toward letting you stay. But never try to grovel drunk. Very bad idea." The bartender firmly pulled the second double, still three-fourths full, away. "Get out of here and go to her. You don't need to be here tonight. Great piece of advice I heard once: When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging."

Wilson studied the glass, just out of reach now, and then the picture of Sandra, still on the cell phone. One immediately available. One much better but requiring work and change with no guarantees his efforts would matter. "You think I've still got a chance?" he asked, not even wondering why he would give so much weight to the opinion of a stranger.

"Yes. But not if you stay here moping and getting drunk instead of talking to her. Get out of here."

Wilson stood up. He could feel the effect of what he'd had so far on an empty stomach, but he shouldn't be over the legal limit yet. He pulled out his wallet and tossed a bill onto the counter. "Thanks."

The bartender watched him leave and then pocketed the handsome tip. "Part of my job," he said to himself. "Damn, I would have made a great psychiatrist."


	100. Chapter 100

A/N: Another update, trying to keep pegging away on it in gaps. Next chapter, Wilson (plus a little alcohol) meets Sandra (plus surprise!).

(H/C)

House and Cuddy unlocked his office and entered. He took a deep breath and flinched. The glue was still there, hovering around the edges, and knowing that his mind was amplifying it made it even more annoying. The memory of Cuddy was there too, at least, but the grip of the glue was still stronger than expected. He had hoped for more immediate improvement.

Cuddy set down the folded blanket on the edge of his desk but didn't remove her coat immediately. "We'll get there, Greg," she promised him. "I'm going to go over the balcony and make sure Wilson's not in his office right now."

House grinned. "Don't want an audience?"

"No," she said firmly. She opened the balcony door and slipped out, leaving the door propped open slightly to give him some air. He noticed, as did the memories of the glue, surging in as if agreeing that yes, they were still enough to bother him. Annoyed, he ignored the invitation of the air on the balcony himself and instead double checked that all blinds were pulled all the way, then stood with his back to the balcony door, facing the Eames chair. Cuddy, he reminded himself. Think of Cuddy. Don't think of . . . glue or nails or utter terrified helplessness. Or carpet compressing his chest, restricting breathing. Or the hammer in John's hands.

Cuddy scrambled over the balcony wall and peered into Wilson's office. It was completely dark, desk neat as always. His coat wasn't here. Either the patient was so critical that he hadn't bothered to stop by his office first, or the patient's crisis had resolved, one way or another, and he had already left. Either way, he seemed safely out of their hair for the moment.

Returning to House's office, she noted him standing facing pointedly away from the balcony door. Stubborn idiot, she thought. He wasn't willing to give himself much leeway tonight. Better progress on quickly to more powerful changes of subject. She unpropped the balcony door to close the draft, then picked up the blanket from the edge of the desk and unfolded it with a brisk snap as she would have a trash bag, letting the air assist in straightening it out before she let it lower to the floor. Unfortunately, she underestimated the size of the unfolding blanket, and her brisk, annoyed snap, annoyance at Patrick and John rather than House, was much stronger than she realized. One edge of the blanket sprang out and popped House on the back of the shoulder as it unfolded.

House jumped sharply forward from the blow, stumbling into the Eames chair, nearly going down. Cuddy dropped the blanket and rushed over to try to catch him. "Greg!" He flinched again at her shout, and she immediately forced herself to dial the tone down several notches. "Easy. It's okay." She gripped his shoulders, turning him to face her. "Easy. It was just the blanket. I should have warned you before I did that." She didn't say she was sorry. She would in a minute, but she was afraid it would backfire right now as he teetered on the cliff edge of the past. His eyes were wide, his breathing accelerated, but he was trying to lock onto her voice, she could tell. "It's okay," she repeated, hugging him.

"I was standing there thinking . . . " he mumbled against her shoulder, then trailed off. He had been thinking of John, and the surprise blow from behind had automatically been attributed to the familiar source.

Cuddy was calling herself an entire string of names right now. "I was just unfolding the blanket. I shouldn't have done it like that." His breathing was still uneven. She suddenly remembered exactly how much of this day had been an extended course of trigger practice. Maybe they were pushing too hard. "Let's take a break first, okay? I want to ask you something." She urged him gently toward the balcony. He hesitated, then went along. He knew he needed a chance now to regroup before actually lying down on that floor and getting on the level of the glue.

Outside, the night was crisp and clear and cold. House leaned on the wall, looking out over Princeton, just breathing. Cuddy snuggled up close to him, for contact for him as well as mutual warmth. They were silent for a minute. "What did you want to ask me?"

"What did you say to Sandra? She seemed fine when I went back to the nursery - well as fine as she is these days thanks to Wilson. When I came back out, she looked like she was in shock."

"Oh, not much. Just asked where Wilson was, appreciated the free babysitting. I might have also implied at the end that she was pregnant."

Cuddy straightened up in surprise. "She's _pregnant_? Seriously?"

He nodded. "Pretty sure she hadn't realized it yet."

"This is a hell of a time to drop that on her, Greg. She already had plenty to think about."

"And she needs to have all the relevant data while she runs her differential. Unfair to leave that chunk out."

"You think she should get back with Wilson just for the sake of the child, no matter if he's faithful to her or not?"

He shook his head. "That's not what I was saying. I just think she deserves to have all the relevant data to work from. What she does with it is her choice."

Cuddy sighed. "Poor Sandra. The timing really could be better on that. I think she mentioned once she was on birth control. Not that she didn't want kids, just hadn't planned on them yet."

"News flash, Dr. Cuddy. Birth control isn't 100% effective. Even sterilization operations can fail. The only way to avoid _any_ statistical chance of pregnancy is abstinence. Seriously un-fun way, but it's the one that's guaranteed."

Or hysterectomy, she thought, but the thought was fleeting and without regret. She was happy with her family, with her two daughters and her husband. She needed nothing more. Except maybe Patrick in prison for life without parole. Shame New Jersey had no death penalty any longer. She knew it was a complicated issue in general, but in the case of Patrick, she would have gladly pulled the switch on him herself and then walked away without a single pang of conscience. "I'm sorry I startled you earlier," she said, and they locked into a kiss.

"It was my fault," he insisted a minute later. "I was standing there thinking about how I wasn't going to think about him, including an itemized list of all the things I wouldn't think about. Jensen specifically _told_ me that approach doesn't work."

"It's been a long day." She hesitated. "Greg, do you think maybe we've done enough today? We've been hitting things pretty hard all day. Maybe we shouldn't push on for more tonight. Are you sure we want to do this right now?" In retrospect, he had been edgy even before they got to the office.

He pulled away, and she felt the annoyance in him. "Damn it, we only have a few more days. But I don't want to . . . okay, if you want to, we'll just stop there."

Something had changed in his tone at the end, something she couldn't quite understand, as if he'd found a new piece of data himself to add to his own differential. Trouble was, she didn't quite trust his perception of data, not on this subject. His usual genius was lacking when it came to self analysis. "What are you thinking?" He pulled away, pacing a circle on the balcony. She captured him by an arm as he whirled by. "Greg, _talk _to me. What is it?"

"I . . . hate taking something like sex between us and just turning it into a practice drill for you while you cope with my issues."

She stared at him, stunned. "You think I didn't enjoy last night? That this is just mental drill work for me?" He looked down, avoiding her eyes. "Listen, Greg House, I don't appreciate the circumstances, but last night was _not_ just an annoying chore. That wasn't what I was thinking of by suggesting skipping it tonight. Every single time with you, _every_ time, on the floor of your office last night or in our own bed, we are _making love_. It is beautiful. That's the present you have now, Greg. It really is beautiful. I don't have to fake that just to get something to counteract Patrick; it's right there available anyway."

He looked back at her. "You don't mind putting up with me?"

She gripped him firmly by the shoulders. "I am _not_ putting up with you. Whether I mind or not doesn't even enter the equation."

He studied her eyes for a minute, then dodged into humor, getting uncomfortable with the too-raw emotions. "Actually, I've had dreams about us doing it in my office floor."

"So have I, Greg. For _years_." She kissed him, trying to convince him physically. "Minus the rug burns," she added a minute later. "But Greg, even the rug burns are worth it."

"Dreams never include things like rug burns," he noted.

"Which is more proof that this isn't merely a dream. It's reality. This is the family you have now. So, simply asking and not me trying to get out of a chore, do you want to go on tonight - with the blanket to combat rug burns - or not?"

He thought about it longer that time, then finally nodded. "We really are short on time."

"I know." Valid point, but she reminded herself again, with a swift mental kick, to move gradually and avoid things like hitting him with the blanket. "And again, I'm sorry for hitting you earlier." She kissed him.

"You didn't hit me," he insisted. "The blanket did."

"So let's go put that blanket in its place," she stated.

Together they returned to the office. Cuddy smoothed out the blanket carefully. House took off his coat and shoes, then slowly lowered himself to the floor. His breathing automatically picked up again, the memories pushing in greedily. His eyes found her and grasped on tightly.

Cuddy removed her coat slowly, making a show of it as a promise of more. "Greg," she said, "don't think about him. Just think about me. Think about what we have together. Even right now, it _is _making love." Putting actions to her words, she started the enticing process of undressing, unwrapping herself like a present, piece by piece, only intended for him.

She had told the truth. Even now, for her as well as him, even if it started out at first as a therapeutic exercise, that thought was fleeting. In the end, it _was_ making love.


	101. Chapter 101

Sandra sat in the rocking chair in the nursery, the back-and-forth motion mirroring her own thoughts. Abby was sleeping peacefully in her arms. The baby hadn't even woken up when Sandra picked her up out of the crib, but Sandra wanted to hold her, a visual illustration to her thoughts. A reminder that this was _real_. She was no longer making decisions just for herself.

It never occurred to her to doubt House's diagnosis. She was only a little late, which she had put down to the intense stress she had been under recently, and she had faithfully taken the pill, but somehow it had happened anyway. Backtracking in time, she wondered if her child had been conceived the day after Christopher's death, that early morning Wilson had come home exhausted and still worried after a night at the hospital being there for House. He had given her a short summary of events but had wanted comfort rather than talking through his own emotions as usual, and she had gladly given it. Had her own baby also been an incidental product of this entire situation with Patrick Chandler? More good coming out of that man's evil?

She had wanted children, had even dreamed of them. Had even dreamed of _his_, with chocolate eyes. But she had never dreamed of it like this.

She studied Abby, still undersized. So fragile in her arms. A new life. She was responsible for a new life.

Of course, she had no question that Wilson would help her, would be there for his child, nor did she have any intentions of shutting him out as a father. But should she give him another chance to be more than the father to her baby? Should they get back together as a full couple?

She knew better than to base a relationship entirely on "being together for the sake of the kids." Her own parents had been a wonderful example of a loving, committed relationship, even through difficulties, of which there had been plenty. Her sister, two years younger, had died of cancer in childhood, and memories of her illness, of the medical personnel who had tried to help, had given birth to Sandra's goal of being a nurse. To try to make a difference, and if you couldn't make the ultimate difference, to try to make _some _difference for the patients, as she had seen lived out in front of her, those dedicated people still giving her sister and the whole family comfort, even when they all knew that medically, there was no more hope of recovery. She remembered the grief afterward. But through it all, they had been _together_ as a family. Her parents had turned to each other, not to a bar, not to one-night stands at a conference, after the death. Children had added to their relationship, but they had not completely formed it.

She had also had a good friend in junior high and high school whose parents were simply "staying together for the kids," whose father, while a nice man and nothing like Patrick Chandler, had simply been unable to stay faithful. She knew that her friend was aware of this far earlier than either parent realized, with the perception of children, incomplete at first but gradually filling in to form the picture. The parents had said nothing, simply divorcing after all children were grown, but they hadn't had to say anything. Sandra remembered her friend telling her once at a sleepover, "I wish my parents loved each other like yours do." Sandra also remembered that that friend was herself now on her third marriage, both having been cheated on and having cheated herself. The friend had even in conversation used Wilson's same line - "I didn't mean to. It just happened." She had used Wilson's same line more than once.

Sandra wondered how many times Wilson had used that line.

If he truly believed that, that "accidents" would simply happen wholly beyond his control, she knew she couldn't stay with him. She'd known his reputation around the hospital, of course, but captivated by his eyes and his bedside manner, by his obvious compassion and caring both with his patients and with House after the car accident of a year ago, she had fallen head over heels. She had believed his statement that, "I just hadn't met the right one."

She couldn't believe it any longer. If it was true, then she wasn't the right one, either, and the relationship should end. If it was false, then he had been in denial and just making excuses for a far deeper problem. Or had been deliberately lying to her just to get together, but she favored denial.

But was he finally recognizing a problem in his handling of relationships now? Was he truly at last admitting it and willing to work on things? Could he change?

Could she risk it if he couldn't?

The drinking also bothered her. In retrospect, she could see a disturbing pattern here over the months she had known him and over his history through the years as she had heard it. Wilson did not drink to excess regularly, but when something was especially bothering him, his two habitual responses were to refuse to talk about it and to get absolutely plastered. He could talk about anybody else's emotions for hours, but never about his own, and when he did start really drinking, he had no brakes. She couldn't remember a time that something was on his mind and he had gone out to a bar, had a drink or two, and left still in control. Several of his previous cheating experiences, though definitely not all, had involved alcohol. She also had heard the story of how he had met House by breaking the bar mirror. She knew there was more than one kind of alcoholic, and she was beginning to wonder if he had an occasional binge problem in that area as well as his clear issues with impulse control.

She looked down at Abby and sighed. People could change. She knew House had changed, for one. But people could only change when they truly decided that they needed to.

The doorbell sounded, and Sandra stood up carefully, tucked Abby back in, and headed for the living room. She looked through the peephole, then opened the door, surprised. "Hi. I figured you'd still be at the hospital."

Wilson entered slowly, looking uncertain and sheepish. "He died late this afternoon."

"I'm sorry," Sandra said and wondered why he jumped slightly at the words. "How are his parents doing?"

"As well as could be expected." Wilson gave the standard hospital answer. He took a few steps closer, approaching tentatively. "I . . . wondered if we could talk."

Unfortunately, his closer approach also gave her a good whiff of his breath, the strong smell of scotch unmistakable. "You've been drinking," she diagnosed.

"No, I . . . I mean, not _really_ drinking, just one. Well, one and part of another one." She looked skeptical. "Okay, so they were doubles. Not all of the second one, though. But I'm not drunk. Maybe a little . . . relaxed . . . but not drunk, I swear." He shifted, looking anything but relaxed. "I went to a bar but . . . it . . . it didn't feel right. So I left. And I . . . can we talk?"

Sandra studied him. "You're lying about something in all that," she said.

"It's not a lie. It _did _feel wrong. And I left." He looked at her unyielding eyes and realized that his attempt to gain brownie points for leaving the bar wasn't working. "The bartender might have . . . encouraged me to leave a little. But it didn't feel right even before that. Really."

Sandra backed away half a step and sighed. "Would you have left if he hadn't said something?"

"Yes," Wilson replied instantly. "I just went there for one drink." But the bartender was right; he had already gone past one. Would he have left anyway?

Sandra shook her head. "I'll go make some coffee."

"I need to talk to you," Wilson insisted, pursuing her. "Look, I'll admit, I was a total idiot. Please, just give me one more chance to change. I'm really going to work on things. I know I have problems, but I don't want to lose you, Sandra." He hesitated, for the first time really looking at her since he had come in. "Are you all right? You look pale." He reached out, switching into medical mode, checking her temperature and pulse.

"I'm fine, James. I just had some surprising news. I'm still getting used to the idea."

"What surprising news?" he asked.

She sighed again. She longed for her own parents, both dead, for somebody close to talk to first for advice. But in the end, she knew that he deserved to be the first one she told. He was the father, after all. "I'm pregnant," she stated.

Wilson's eyes widened, then lit up. In the next minute, he closed the gap and embraced her fiercely, kissing her for the first time since his confession Monday night. She started to respond at first, then pulled back. He released her a bit, still elated. "That changes _everything_!"

In the next instant, he reeled back himself, his face still stinging, his ears ringing with the force of her slap. Her eyes were blazing. "That changes _everything_? You mean I wasn't enough to keep you in a committed relationship on my own, but the child is? Is that the secret? All the previous times, the real problem was just that none of them happened to get pregnant fast enough to hold onto you?"

He backtracked frantically. "No, that's not what I meant. I just . . . I mean . . . it's my fault, not yours. I know that. But a child . . ." He trailed off. He truly had expected for her to conclude immediately that they should get back together to raise their son or daughter.

Sandra shook her head. "Sit down. I'll go make us some coffee." She made a brisk about-face, still annoyed and showing it in the set of her shoulders and her brisk stride toward the kitchen. Wilson sank into a chair and groaned, resting his head in his hands. Once again, he longed for House or Jensen or even the bartender to give him advice here, but he knew that calling for direction right in front of his girlfriend - his ex? girlfriend - the mother of, oh my God, the _mother_ of _his_ child, would not go over well, even if any of the above would pick up, which was doubtful. Leaving while she was out of the room would be even a bigger mistake, not just avoidance but an automatic end to things right there.

He also was suddenly aware again that he was somewhat buzzed from the effects of that scotch on an empty stomach. Not really drunk, like he'd told her, but he could feel it. He should have kept his mouth shut - a few minutes ago, earlier tonight at the bar, two weeks ago at the hotel bar. Definitely should have kept his mouth shut more.

But now, he had no choice. This was it, the next few minutes, ready or not. It was time for a serious talk.


	102. Chapter 102

Managed to finish off Friday night in work gaps; it's been a bit intermittent today. On to Saturday. Court, lest anybody forget, is Monday.

(H/C)

Sandra returned to the living room with coffee for him and tea for her, handed Wilson his, then sat down on the couch, several feet and a canyon between them. "James, I want you to know," she started out, "that whatever happens between us, I will never try to shut you out from our child."

He should have been encouraged, but he wasn't. He knew she would never get vindictive and use a child as a pawn in a chess match of one upsmanship against him. He wouldn't put that past a former wife or two, if the situation had ever come up, but not Sandra. "Thanks, but what I want is for us all to be together."

She looked down at the steaming cup in her hands. "I do, too," she said after a minute. "I just don't know if that's possible."

Ouch. He flinched as if he'd been slapped again. He tried to squirm away from that statement; maybe talking about the child would improve her mood some. "You said you just found out. So you just took a pregnancy test tonight?"

"No, I actually haven't taken one yet. Not an over-the-counter one, at least. House told me."

Wilson straightened up in annoyance. "Of _course_ House told you. Damn it, the man is two steps ahead of me in _everything_."

She looked at him oddly. "He's a diagnostic genius, James. He sees data and puts it together; he can't help it. You have different talents. Besides, I guess he could be wrong." They looked at each other for a moment. "Okay, so he's not wrong. Not on this. He wouldn't have spoken up if he weren't sure."

"He's not wrong," Wilson agreed. "Imagine how much money the world could save on pregnancy tests and such if they'd simply ask House his opinion in the first place. Even just around PPTH, we're probably talking thousands in savings per year." She grinned momentarily. "So are you feeling okay?"

She looked away again. "Not really, but none of that is because of the pregnancy. I need to change some things, though. I'll get some prenatal vitamins Monday and ask the doctor for a prescription for something so I can eat better."

He was immediately concerned. "You're having trouble eating?" Come to think of it, she had lost a few pounds. Why hadn't he noticed before?

"Just an upset stomach. Not morning sickness, just stress, I think. It's a constant general effect, not worse in the mornings, no actual vomiting. Eating doesn't make it worse; it's just that I don't feel like eating. No problems staying hydrated. I've been having trouble sleeping, too," she admitted. "I'm sure it's just stress, but I haven't got the option of not doing something about it now."

Wilson closed his eyes, imagining the turmoil inside her. Turmoil that he had put there, chewing away at her and at their child. "I am so sorry, Sandra." The image of House and Cuddy wasn't anywhere near his thoughts at that moment; Sandra didn't leave room for anything else..

She looked back up, directly at him. "Why did you do it? Why do you _keep_ doing it? And don't tell me something we both know is a lie, like you hadn't met the right one yet. This is a chronic, recurring problem, and the one constant factor in every case is you."

He desperately wanted to look away himself, to stall for time, to call somebody for advice. He knew he couldn't. Right now, in the next few minutes, his future was up to him. He tried to channel Jensen, imagining what the psychiatrist would say. "I . . . I was talking to Jensen about that. You're right; I know I have a problem. I admit I've tried to excuse it before, but it's there. Jensen thinks I define relationships in terms of helping other people, meeting their needs, physically and otherwise." He paused, wondering how this was going, and she nodded. Okay, she was still listening at least. "He also thinks I use that - giving to other people - as a way of avoiding opening up about myself." She definitely nodded there. "So when I start a relationship, at first, it's fine, and I'm making the other person happy, and that makes _me_ happy. But then it gets to the point that I'd have to start revealing more of myself for the relationship to get deeper, that just trying to please the other person and meet their needs isn't enough anymore. And that scares the hell out of me. So I do something stupid like looking for another need somewhere else that I _can_ meet and stay superficial." He paused again. "I'm really trying to work on this. I realized some things Monday with Jensen I'd never quite put together like that before." He stopped. The ball was in her court.

"I can't be in an open relationship," she said after a minute. "It would violate everything I saw from my parents. Faithfulness and commitment _matter_, James. If I give you another chance, there would only be one. If it ever happened again, under _any_ circumstances, you have to know that you are choosing to end it forever at that moment. There's also the example we're setting for our child now. And children pick up on more than we realize. I can't keep you from teaching our child that faithfulness and promises in relationships aren't that important, but I refuse to condone that example."

He cringed. That hurt, but he knew he deserved it. "I know. It wouldn't happen again, I swear. I am going to work on things."

"You never talk when something's bothering you. You can talk about anybody else, but not you."

He nodded. "I know. I'm . . . probably as screwed up as House is. But I _am_ trying to work on things. I'll try harder."

Sandra studied him for a moment. "I also really think you have a problem with alcohol."

_That_ one he wasn't expecting, and he straightened up in automatic denial. "There are whole weeks that I don't drink, or just a glass of wine socially. _Everybody_ gets totally drunk now and then."

She shook her head. "No, James, everybody does _not_. Have you ever discussed drinking with Jensen?"

"No. He has asked, but there was nothing to discuss." Jensen had questioned him at the beginning of therapy about his habits, and Wilson had told him the truth, that while he had been drunk a time or two over his life, it was not a habit nor a problem and that his current use was merely social. The oncologist hadn't brought up alcohol with him since then; they'd certainly had plenty else to work on between his family and Danny. Besides, it was _House_ who had always bordered on substance abuse. "House is the one you should be talking to about this, not me," Wilson deflected.

Sandra sighed. "When is the last time House went out to a bar and got totally drunk to the point of incapacitation?"

Wilson paused in mid defense, stumped. "I honestly can't remember. He hardly ever goes to one anymore."

"I know you aren't always drinking. It is intermittent. But when something is bothering you, once you start drinking, you can't stop."

"I stopped tonight," he insisted.

"Would you have if the bartender hadn't intervened and told you to leave?"

"I . . . " He hesitated, again remembering the bartender's comment that he was already past one drink and they both knew it wouldn't have stopped with the second. But he hadn't intended to get drunk tonight. He would have stopped anyway. Wouldn't he? Another memory swam up suddenly, House deliberately getting him drunk to annoy Amber, and House pointing out at the end that while yes, he was being a manipulative bastard, it was _Wilson_ who kept pouring down everything placed in front of him. Why hadn't he quit? It wasn't like House was being subtle on strategy, sitting there drinking coffee while ordering chain drinks for his friend. But Wilson had been bothered that night, torn between Amber's jealousy of House and House's jealousy of Amber and both of them claiming his time. Was he truly unable to turn away from the lure of alcohol when he was troubled? He remembered again a thought from earlier tonight, that the liquor was always at least there for him. Was it another mistress he cheated with to avoid opening up about himself to his girlfriends?

"Please think about it," Sandra urged. "I really do think you have a problem. There's more than one kind of alcoholic, James. And you do only really hit the bottle when you're dodging talking. And then you can't stop. Do you know how many times in our relationship you've gotten completely drunk out at a bar and had to be picked up?" He backtracked, trying to count. "Three," she replied. "Twice I had to go get you; once House brought you home. All three were after you'd had a long-term patient die. Twice I'd tried to get you to talk about it before you went to the bar, and you refused to talk. Then there's the hotel two weeks ago, when you were bothered about Danny. Four in the time we've been together; which is an average of every other month, and tonight would have been five. Please, just tell Jensen those figures, at least, and see how he reacts."

He stared at her. "It hasn't happened that often," he insisted.

"Do you want the names of the patients?" she asked, but more sadly than challenging. "I remember those, because the only time you would talk about them was later that night when you could hardly speak, and then you just kept going on about failing to help them. The first one was Mrs. Gardner. She died about a month and a half after we got together, and she left a husband and two small children. The second one . . ."

Wilson held up a hand. "Okay. So it's happened more than once or twice. But there are a lot of times it doesn't happen. I see death a lot. I _need_ a release from it once in a while."

She flinched. "That's supposed to be when you turn to your loved ones for support." He had no comeback to that, and the silence lengthened for a minute. "I know you've had legal problems created by drinking at least once, too, when you met House at that conference. If something is troubling you, you _cannot_ just take one drink and walk away. And the inability to control your intake and walk away is one of the signs of alcoholism."

Part of him longed to tell her she was completely off the wall and just to stand up and stalk out. Another part knew that standing up and stalking out for any reason right now would be the kiss of death for his chances with Sandra. And another part was now starting to worry over that thought like a dog gnawing a bone. Did he really have a problem with alcohol? She clearly thought he did, and the only way back to her might well lie over that bridge. "I . . . I hadn't realized it was that often. I'll talk to Jensen about it, see what he thinks." He had to force every one of the words out, far more bitter tasting than the scotch from earlier tonight.

She relaxed, and he realized suddenly how hard that must have been for her. Challenging somebody on a possible addiction was always a minefield. But she had done it calmly, logically, presenting evidence, not judgmentally like he had sometimes in the past gone after House. "I mean it," he said. "I really will think about that."

Just then, Abby woke up down the hall, and Sandra got to her feet and headed toward the nursery. He watched her go, still unable to see whatever House had seen regarding pregnancy, which still annoyed him, but he _could_ see that she had lost some weight, and her stride was tired. He was stressing her out. He was stressing _them_ out.

A vision of the future suddenly leaped up and seized him. Wilson staggering into their house, having had to be fetched from a bar, so drunk he was having trouble walking but still talking - or at least trying to - about those unimportant trivia facts that when he was drunk could sometimes seem the most important matters in the world. Sandra helping balance him, steering him toward bed, trying to shush his giggling outbursts. And in the background, a dark-haired child peering around the edge of the bedroom door, looking at him in absolute bewilderment.

How often would that scene have to occur to make it qualify as a genuine problem? Every weekend? Every other month? Once or twice?

And that was assuming that such nights ended up at home rather than getting sidetracked elsewhere, which he couldn't deny on history was a possibility. He realized that Sandra had been completely sincere earlier. Drunk or sober, if he ever cheated again, any chance with her was permanently ended. And his actions also, as she had said, would now set an example for their child. Was that the example he wanted to give as a father? He truly wanted reconciliation with Sandra just for herself, but the thought of little eyes watching him in the future was suddenly and literally sobering.

He gulped down the rest of his half-empty cup of coffee and surged to his feet, heading for the nursery. Sandra had just finished changing Abby and was standing there leaning slightly on the crib, studying the baby. Abby was already settling back into peaceful, innocent dreams.

Wilson stopped a few feet behind her, longing to touch her but unsure if he still had the right. "I'll go to AA," he promised. "I'll get counseling. I'll do _something._"

She turned around with a surprised smile. "Thank you, James. I know that isn't easy."

"I can't . . ." He trailed off, looking at the girls. "I didn't realize it happened that often. I'd never kept track. But like you said, I haven't got the option of not doing something about it now."

She nodded and moved past him to the door. "Come on. We don't want to disturb them."

Back in the living room, she sat down again on the couch, and he resumed his chair. "About counseling, I think that would be a good idea. For us, I mean."

His heart soared on the word us. "Jensen said he knew a good couple's counselor he could recommend in Trenton." He hesitated, afraid to ask. "So do you . . ."

She sighed and looked up at him. "I think I'd like to date."

"To date?"

"Do things together, enjoy common interests. _Talk_ to each other. Like most people do getting to know each other. I think we need to get to know each other better than we do."

Not the answer he'd wanted, but it was something. "O-_kay_. Do you . . . do you want me to move out in the meantime?"

"No, but . . ." Wilson's heart did a steep roller coaster hill on those two words, soaring up, then plunging back down. "I don't think we should sleep together right now. I think it . . . it got in the way sometimes of us getting to know each other. I think we need to see if we can build a relationship on something besides good sex before we know if we could work or not. We need to order a bed for the spare room, though. The couch is going to kill your back."

_Definitely_ not the answer he'd wanted. He was a man, after all, and he had imagined the make-up sex. But she wasn't kicking him out. Not at the moment, anyway. He apparently _did_ have a chance. "Thank you," he said. "I'll work on things. I promise." He studied her. "You have lost weight in the last week. I can't believe I didn't notice it before. You need to see the doctor Monday."

"I will," she promised. "House's hearing is Monday, but I wasn't going to go to that anyway. I'll wish him well, but I think he'd probably like knowing that there was one person in his circle who didn't hear all the details on his history." Wilson started to nod, then froze. Court would likely last a good bit of the day; they were expecting a real battle from the defense over the evidence, especially House's cross-examination. But Sandra would see the doctor . . .

She read the tug-of-war on his face. "_You_ are definitely going to court," she emphasized. "He needs you there. He needs some of his people along with the media, and you're his best friend. I can see the doctor on my own."

He hesitated. She had a point, though. Hers would be a mostly routine initial appointment. House was guaranteed to have one of the most stressful days of his post-childhood life. "Text me when you know something. Okay?"

"I will," she promised.

He looked around restlessly. She was tired, and he had the feeling they'd better stop talking tonight while he was a little ahead. Now that a few conclusions were reached, best to stop before his foot could find his mouth again. "So, do you want to watch a movie?"

(H/C)

House and Cuddy arrived home to find Wilson sitting in the chair staring at the "pause" frame on the TV as if it were the most interesting picture he had ever seen. "Good show?" House asked.

"What?" Wilson jumped, looking at them as if they had beamed in by Star Trek transporter.

"Where's Sandra?" Cuddy asked.

"In the nursery. Rachel woke up, and she was trying to get her back to sleep. Didn't want me to help." Cuddy grinned. Wilson to Rachel spelled play time, and no, she would not be apt to surrender willingly again to slumber with him right there. Cuddy took off her coat and headed toward the nursery herself.

"So," House diagnosed. "You had the Big Talk. What was the verdict?"

Wilson sighed. "I think I've got a suspended sentence and am on probation. The final decision isn't in yet, but she wants to date. Just date. Talking and such, getting to know us better. No sex with each other."

"Wouldn't be a good idea with a substitute just now either," House pointed out.

"Believe me, she made that point pretty clear, too." Wilson looked at his friend. "She said you told her she was pregnant."

"Didn't actually say it, but the communication was made."

"You might have mentioned that to me, you know."

House shrugged. "I left you hints, too. Can I help it if you didn't take them but she did?"

"When?" Wilson protested.

"Yesterday at Thanksgiving, when we were coming in from the back yard."

Wilson considered and then sighed again. Yes, the clue was there, and he'd missed the diagnosis. Yet another thing he hadn't put together. "House, do you think I'm an intermittent binge alcoholic?"

"Yes," House replied immediately.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "You might have mentioned that before, too."

House shook his head. "You've got to be kidding. Some time create that imaginary conversation in your head and see how it goes. I'm the last person you'd hear that from. If I brought it up, you'd immediately flip the tables on me, pull out the big shovel for an exhumation of 20 years of long-dead history point by point, and you'd also wind up using Amber for a few fresh stabs while you were defending yourself. Then you would feel guilty afterward, not convinced I was right, mind you, but guilty. That would make you even more annoyed. You needed to hear that from somebody else, and on their own data, not mine, because I doubt you'd take it without a lot of protest from anybody at all, so they'd have to have a case ready of their own making. My testimony would have been inadmissible by you in that case."

Wilson started to protest, then stopped. What was the point? House was probably right. As always. Again. Needing something to fiddle with, he picked up the remote to stop the movie and switch off the TV as he changed the subject, tired of self-revelation for tonight. "How was your dinner, or night out, or whatever you were doing?"

"Great," House replied. "Not dinner, though. Cuddy and I were having sex in my office. We did last night, too. Strictly therapeutic, understand. It's a homework assignment from Jensen."

Wilson stared. "_That's _an assignment from Jensen? You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes. Cuddy, me, office. Liftoff."

"Exactly how is that therapeutic?"

House turned away, the joking tone falling away from his voice. "Carpet glue," he stated flatly.

"Oh." The light dawned. "You're still working on new associations for things before the hearing." House nodded. "Well, that's a really good one, House. That ought to work like a charm, knock the old memories totally out."

House paced to the window, his posture tense again. "Yes, it ought to," he replied softly.

Wilson extracted his foot from his mouth for the umpteenth time that evening and was wondering what to say now when Cuddy and Sandra saved him by coming back down the hall. "Thank you so much," Cuddy was saying as they entered the room. She came to a stop, looking from House, standing staring out into the darkness stiffly, to Wilson, who looked like a guilty puppy at the moment. "Greg?" She glared at Wilson, the subliminal message clear. The oncologist cringed.

House turned around from the window. "Nothing." He reached into his pocket, extracting his wallet.

"I said I didn't want . . ." Sandra started, while Wilson stared in shock but bit back his sarcastic comment on the unusualness of this maneuver on House's part. He was too aware of Cuddy's ire at the moment.

House pulled out not bills but two prescriptions written out instead and handed them to Sandra. "Payment for tonight," he said. Sandra looked from one to the other, then grinned.

"Thanks. I was going to see my doctor next week - still will," she said quickly, forestalling Wilson's protest. "But I can go ahead and fill these now. And please let me know if you need anything the rest of this weekend. I don't mind watching the girls at all."

"What about tomorrow night?" Cuddy asked. Sandra and Wilson both nodded. "Okay, we'll see you then. And thank you."

Once the door was closed again, Cuddy turned to House. "What were you thinking of a few minutes ago, Greg?" she demanded.

He sighed and walked back to the window, watching the two cars pull out of the driveway. Cuddy came up behind him and wrapped her arms around him, waiting him out. "Wilson wondered what we'd been doing, so I told him. He commented that that ought to work like a charm and just erase things."

Cuddy flinched. "He didn't have to live through what it's replacing, Greg. Nobody could overcome that memory easily. Most people wouldn't have even survived your childhood to be struggling with the memories."

"I know," he said. "Logically, I know. But it still seems . . ."

She kissed him. "You're too much of a genius at times. You expect to be spectacular at everything. But you know what, Greg, as far as replacement therapy is going, you _are_ spectacular. I know it's not easy, but you're still exceptional, and you are winning - better and faster than probably anybody else in the same situation would. And I'm sure Jensen will say the same when you see him tomorrow." House grinned, imagining telling the psychiatrist about the latest anti-trigger, and when Cuddy kissed him again, he returned it with interest.

"By the way," she said after a few minutes. "Sandra mentioned that she talked to Wilson."

"Yep. He's not totally out of the dog house, but he's got a chance if he really wants to take it."

"The right person is worth changing for," she noted.

He looked straight at her, his blue eyes luminous. "Yes, she is." They melted together again, and Cuddy was about to suggest adjourning to the bedroom for a thorough snuggle session, even knowing that he probably couldn't take it further than that again tonight. He was over 50, after all. But House, to her secret delight, was as much of a snuggler as she was.

He spoke before she could. "By the way, Lisa, there's something I need to tell you." His tone was absolutely serious. "I've never mentioned this before, hadn't been ready to share it, but I think I'd like you to know at this point." She nodded, waiting expectantly for whatever revelation. "I have some seriously traumatic memories related to the main reception desk in the lobby at PPTH."

His delivery was perfect, totally deadpan, and she burst out laughing. "Nice try, but not a chance. Come on, Greg. Let's go to bed."


	103. Chapter 103

Jensen arrived at his office about an hour ahead of time as usual on Saturday morning. He always liked that quiet hour to go over his patients for the day and think about each case. He was feeling energized by his two days completely off, a break that he knew he had badly needed. Today would be a short day, too. He still worked half a day on Saturdays; there were a few patients who had trouble getting in for an appointment during regular hours on a weekday, and he liked providing that flexibility for the ones who needed it. But since Jensen's remarriage, Saturdays were limited to half, with him leaving by noon at the latest, and he also left two hours early two other days a week, trying to keep his total hours from surging far over 40.

This morning, he had three appointments. After checking for messages from his coverage the last two days and thankfully finding none, he reviewed the first two charts quickly, then opened House's. Not that he really needed to review House's case to remind himself of details, but he had an assignment for himself this morning, and he pulled out a fresh notepad and started back at the beginning, February of last year, making notes and letting his thoughts range at the same time as he flipped quickly through the whole chart. So much had happened for both of them since that first Saturday when House had come to his office, bribed by Cuddy and also seeking to avoid his mother. Jensen was really looking forward to House's appointment, the last of today's three. House's silence yesterday spoke volumes; Jensen knew that whatever that final reconditioning cue was, he had it now. The psychiatrist also had no doubt that it would be a good one. He was looking forward to an update.

He had debated, even discussed it some with Melissa this morning, whether he should go down to Princeton Sunday night or Monday morning. Monday morning would mean a very early start for him with the trip, and he knew he could stay with House Sunday night. He didn't mind starting out early Monday, but he was debating whether his presence sooner would help things or not. House would be completely wired Sunday night and the next morning, to put it mildly. Jensen might be able to make a difference, but House also might be better off in Cuddy's hands alone; Jensen wasn't sure if he would be an additional calming factor on Sunday night and getting ready Monday morning or just in the way. It was Melissa who had come up with the obvious suggestion to ask House about it. His words might require some interpretation, but his body language would be pretty straightforward.

The outer door rattled and then opened, and Jensen's secretary poked her head into the open door to the inner office a minute later. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he replied, looking up with a smile. "How was your Thanksgiving, Janice?"

"Wonderful. What about yours?"

"The same. A nice break from everything."

She hesitated, torn between maintaining professionalism and the privacy available at the moment. "I was watching the news a few times. Is Dr. House . . ." She, of course, had access to the files in the first place, and House was enough of a fixture in these offices that she certainly had known in general why he was here by now. Her motivation at the moment was concern, not curiosity.

"I think he'll be okay," Jensen assured her.

She shook her head. "It's sickening to think there are people like that Chandler out there, just living among the rest of us and looking innocent."

"About to be one less of them, though," Jensen replied with satisfaction. "There's a preliminary hearing Monday to make sure there's enough evidence to commit for trial, so you might tune in Monday night for a new update on the case."

"Is that why you asked me to cancel all your appointments for Monday?"

The psychiatrist nodded. "House will be the main witness. I'll be in court."

"Good. I'm sure that will help him." She knew that Jensen had, as he'd told House, been to court in support of patients before, although never under these circumstances.

The office phone rang at that moment, and Jensen and Janice simultaneously looked at their watches. "The world's getting an early start today," he commented.

She gave a resigned shrug and turned dutifully toward her own desk. "Dr. Jensen's office, may I help you? . . . Yes, he is. . . Hold on, please." She appeared again in the door. "It's Dr. Wilson. He wants to talk to you."

Jensen nodded and picked up his own desk phone, hitting the button. Janice discretely closed the door in between the offices to avoid broadcasting any of this conversation to their first patient of the day when he arrived. "Good morning, James," Jensen said.

Wilson sounded tense. "I was hoping I could catch you for a minute before you were with somebody."

"Good timing. I do have an appointment in 30 minutes, though." He really didn't want to get today off track timewise unless there was an emergency. House didn't need to have to wait for his appointment when he arrived, already being tense enough with Monday looming, and Jensen didn't need to be late getting home, where he was expected for lunch, either.

"This won't take long. I finally talked things out with Sandra last night. I need the name of that couple's counselor in Trenton you'd mentioned."

"So she wants you both to go to counseling? That's a very good sign." Jensen opened his top desk drawer and fished out his address book of professional contacts.

"Yes. There's a little more to it than that, though."

"It's still a positive step, James. Far better than 'get out of my life and don't let the door hit you on the way out.'"

He could hear the fleeting grin in Wilson's voice. "Yes, definitely better than that. I've still got plenty of opportunity to mess this up, though. She wants us just to date. _Talking_. Getting to know each other."

Jensen tossed a mental salute to Sandra. "Very good strategy."

"And no sex." Wilson couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice there.

"Again, I agree with that strategy for the moment. You did tend to use it as a dodge."

"She also said that she'd never tolerate it if I cheated again. No matter when or how. It would be immediately over." Wilson sighed. "Not that I _want_ to cheat, understand, but I just hope I can keep it from happening again. It's not like I ever planned to before."

"We can work on that, and counseling will help, too. But ultimately, it is up to you. But it is possible, James. You do have the power to make the decision to change here; it isn't just something you are doomed to repeat with no alternatives." Silence lengthened for a moment. "That wasn't a complete list of the conditions, though, was it? Something else is bothering you."

Wilson stalled; Jensen could picture him fiddling with something. "She . . . um . . .thinks I'm an alcoholic. I have to get help, AA or something."

Jensen straightened up. "From what you've told me, your use was purely social. Except for getting drunk two weeks ago at that conference, of course."

"It might have been a little more than that. I wasn't lying," the oncologist insisted, defense bristles rising. "I'd never kept track, but she had some exact dates and occasions to give me. Not that I'm out getting plastered every weekend, but apparently, when something is bothering me, it's happened more often than I realized. It must be another escape from talking about things."

"How often?" Jensen demanded. "Give me the numbers she told you, not your own."

"She says just since we've been together, there have been three times I got so drunk I couldn't get home on my own. She had to come get me twice, and House did once. All three after a long-term patient died. Then the conference two weeks ago." Wilson left out mention of last night's near miss. "So apparently, um, an average of . . . about every other month."

Jensen closed his eyes for a moment. "You hadn't mentioned any of those three times to me in sessions."

"No, it just slipped my mind."

"Three times? When I always specifically ask you how the previous week has gone?" Jensen let all the skepticism show in his tone there.

"All right, it didn't slip my mind. I just didn't want to talk about it and have you make a big deal out of it."

"It _is_ a big deal, James. That is far beyond a one-time lapse; that's a pattern. Sandra hasn't even been with you a year yet, either. Have you asked somebody longer term, like Dr. House, if that average holds?"

"Not . . . exactly. I didn't ask House for numbers. I did ask him last night if _he_ thought I was an alcoholic, and he agreed, didn't even stop to think about it. But he said he never could have told me that, because I'd never have believed him."

Jensen nodded in silent agreement. "Do you agree now that it's been pointed out by Sandra that alcohol is a problem?"

Wilson hesitated. "Yes. I guess. I'm still surprised at the numbers she had, but if there's any chance it is, I've got to do something about it. No choice. I can't let . . . I'll go to AA, like I said. She really gave me something to think about there."

Jensen sat up straighter, his interest piqued. "What did you start to say there? You can't let what?"

"There was something else Sandra told me last night. She's pregnant. Not that we were trying; we were actually trying _not_ to yet, but apparently, the child never got that memo."

Jensen smiled. "I realize these aren't ideal circumstances, but congratulations."

"Thanks," Wilson replied glumly. "Would be nice if we could actually be a _family_ together to raise the child, though."

"You _can_ be," Jensen insisted. "Yes, you'll have to work at things harder than you ever have. But you have more control over the future than you think you do."

"Just learn to open up and talk about things, learn to stay faithful, and stop drinking," Wilson listed. "Nothing to it. I _am_ going to try. I have to try. But what if . . ."

"Don't think of failure," Jensen advised him. "Think of _Sandra_. Think of your child. When you look at whom you'd be doing it for, those mountains become a little smaller."

"I _do_ love her," Wilson stated. "It's never been like this, not with any of the previous ones." With any former relationship, he thought he really _would_ have walked out last night when she brought up the drinking.

"Then the ending can be just as different."

"I'd better let you go," Wilson said. He had hit his limit on open, self-revealing conversation for the moment.

Jensen read off the name and number of the Trenton counselor. "I'll see you Wednesday at your usual time. Actually, I'll see you Monday in court, but I don't want to schedule anything else that day. We might have time and energy left for a talk anyway that evening if you want, but whether we do or not is out of my control. It depends on how the day goes."

"I know," Wilson agreed. "Poor House is going to have a hell of a day. A lot of obstacles in the way."

"Obstacles can be overcome," Jensen reminded him. "For you just as well as for him." Jensen knew that Wilson had still been holding back somewhat in therapy, unlike House, but nobody can be forced to full commitment to change. Hopefully the added motivation of Sandra and the child would make the needed difference.

"Right," Wilson said. "Okay. See you Monday. Bye." He hung up.

Jensen sat there looking at the picture of his family on his desk. A family once again. He truly felt for Wilson, worried about the possibility of raising a child separately in a broken home, but as he had said, obstacles _could_ be overcome. Not necessarily easily, but they could be.

The psychiatrist closed House's chart and pushed it aside, reaching for the first one again, and spent the remaining five minutes until his first patient came in regaining his own concentration and focus.


	104. Chapter 104

Short morning chapter, and now I'm off to an entire day of travel, plus rehearsal, plus performance tonight. My kinda day off. :) Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

_48 hours._

House drove toward Middletown, trying not to focus on that thought once he'd had it. In just 48 hours, court would be in session. He probably wouldn't be on the stand yet, but the hearing would have started.

Other things, he reminded himself. Keeping Rachel safe. Coming in out of the cold. Nice, steaming, non ice baths. Sex in his office with Cuddy, fulfilling a fantasy of years. His family, all around him now. Abby throwing out the relatives at Thanksgiving. Rachel objecting to the horrible technique of that idiot on his piano.

Think about _other things_.

Part of the problem with being a genius was that his mind never stopped. It always was chewing away at something, often at several different things, and that was working against him now, because as much as he was trying diligently to focus on the positive, the other track was still running, too, even if he tried to shove it into the background. It was like listening to two songs at once, and no matter how hard you concentrate on the one, you are still aware of and annoyed by the overlay from the other. He suddenly wished Cuddy were along with him, so he could have somebody to talk to and distract himself with on the trip. The car seemed already full to bursting with the presence of Patrick, the ghost of John, the defense attorney, the media, and the thoughts of his family, but he knew that a living, breathing presence would help. She had offered to come to keep him company, but he'd turned her down. It would have been a long trip for the girls. Right now, he regretted that. They could have enlisted Sandra and Wilson, after all; they could use the babysitting practice.

He never realized that he was actually speeding up in his effort to impose order on his thoughts until the red and blue swirling lights lit up behind him, spinning just like his mind seemed to be.

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. If there was _one_ more thing these few days needed just to top off the entire awful set of circumstances and provide the cherry on top, it was a speeding ticket. With a sigh, House pulled to the side of the highway. At least the policeman would give him somebody else tangible for a few minutes.

He was fishing out his license and insurance card as the policeman stomped up to the window. "Do you realize how fast you were going?"

"No," House admitted, hoping that the answer was only illegal and not insane.

"You were 9 miles over the limit." The officer took the proffered cards, and House relaxed a fraction. 9 miles over wasn't much. People did that all the time.

The policeman scanned the cards, then looked back at him, startled. "You're Dr. House!"

House closed his eyes momentarily. "Yes, I am, and yes, I'll admit I was speeding. I was just thinking about things and lost track. So go ahead and write me the ticket."

The officer leaned on the rolled down window, closing the distance between them, his whole attitude changing. "We were just talking about you in the station this morning. Really appreciate what you did for that kid, filing the report. And then to keep going after Chandler, keep digging, not just let him get away after the kid died. Too many people would have let it drop."

"His idea to keep going, not mine," House insisted.

"Even so, it's rare to find people stand up against a bully like that, or a blackmailer. Most people, when they realize the type they're up against is playing hard ball, cave in just to make it stop. You came right back at him harder. Good for you."

House groaned. "Would you just go ahead and write the damn ticket?" he snapped. Immediately, he regretted it. Don't antagonize the man; he didn't have time to get arrested this weekend. "I'm sorry," he said contritely, and John and Cuddy both poked at his brain, one on each side, in a chorus of dissonance, the two notes clashing and wrestling with each other.

The policeman looked sympathetic. "It's okay. I know they're making this into a circus. I might have committed assault by now if I were you; I can think of a few reporters I know who would be entirely too tempting." House grinned, some of the tension dissolving. "I'm not going to give you a ticket. Lord knows you've got enough to think about at the moment; I can understand losing track. Just be more careful driving, okay?"

"I will," House promised. "Thank you, Officer."

"Good luck at the evidentiary hearing on Monday. I'm looking forward to seeing this one locked up permanently where he belongs."

"So am I," House replied.

The man handed back his license and insurance card but gripped his hand as House took them. "It is an honor to meet you. Thanks again." He didn't wait to make House reply, just released him quickly and headed back to the patrol car.

House sat for a moment breathing, but the actual conversation, evidence coming in on his side, did help even though it annoyed him. He pulled back out onto the highway, making himself watch the speed this time.

At Jensen's office, the secretary greeted him with a new and extra degree of acknowledgment, even though she was trying to hide it. "Good morning, Dr. House." Yes, here was another one who had watched the news. She didn't wait for him to respond to her greeting, knowing that he rarely did. "Dr. Jensen's still with his previous patient, but he should be done soon."

House nodded shortly and sat down, glancing at his watch. He was still a couple of minutes early. The cop had been offset by the speeding that had produced him. House pulled his keys back out, fiddling with them, wishing for his thinking ball. Then he wondered what the secretary would think if he started bouncing it off the walls. Then he lined up imaginary shots that he could perform with it in this room, trying to keep himself thinking about anything but that looming deadline.

The door to the inner office opened, and the previous patient exited, trailed by Jensen. Jensen smiled at House over the man's shoulder but didn't say anything. Neither he nor the secretary ever referred to a patient by name in front of another one. The other patient, however, gave him that look that was getting so familiar, that "where have I seen this man lately" expression. He gave several more surreptitious glances as he was writing a check, and House heaved himself out of the chair, trying to escape before the eureka moment. Unfortunately, the action took him a while with his damned leg, and it was the leg plus cane, both supporting actors in some of the stories about him, that swung the scales of memory. The other man turned toward him eagerly. "You're Dr. House!" he started. "I was watching . . ."

Jensen thrust himself both physically and symbolically into the middle of this, stepping firmly in between them. "Never mind, _Mr. Madison_." He landed just enough emphasis on the name to be a reminder that confidentiality existed here. "Come on in," Jensen continued to House. "Good to see you."

House limped forward as quickly as he could, gaining the sanctuary of the inner office, and Jensen closed the door behind them.


	105. Chapter 105

House limped into the office and dropped into his usual chair, flinching slightly as he brought his leg up to rest on the ottoman. Yet another tug-of-war was working on his feelings right now. There was the annoyance at the other patient, who now knew a tidbit that the general news didn't yet, that being the exact location of House's psychiatrist. He had been recognized not just as House that doctor on the news stories but as a fellow patient, no doubt here to help him cope with everything in his so-pathetic and now so-public past. It was just another reminder how screwed up he was and another person, a total stranger, joining the ranks of those who realized it. Yet firmly gripping the other end of that mental tug-of-war rope was Jensen. It was still an anomaly to House to have somebody immediately, without even having to debate it, step in to support and defend him. Cuddy would, of course, but even with her, he wasn't yet used to it. All his childhood and most of his adult life, he had lacked a defender. Wilson had been a good friend, but Wilson over the years had thought about and analyzed practically _everything _between them, often with lectures provided along with his assistance. Which House didn't mind; that was just how their relationship had worked. But encountering automatic, unquestioned, unmixed loyalty, unashamed to show itself publicly, was still a novelty.

Jensen was keeping an eye on him out of the corner of his eye as he went across to pour them each a cup of coffee. House's leg clearly was bothering him more than usual today, probably a byproduct of general tension. He looked annoyed and on edge, which was hardly surprising, but Jensen was glad to see that he wasn't quite as upset as he had been on entering the office last Wednesday, even with the closer proximity of Monday's hearing. They were making progress. If only they'd had even more time; the ideal course of his therapy should not have been like this. Jensen stomped out another glowing ember of anger against Patrick and walked across the office to join House.

"I apologize for that," he started, handing House a cup of coffee. "The esteem was genuine, but this wasn't the appropriate place to bring it up."

House stared at his cup. "The whole world is doing the same thing; he's not the first one today. So far just this morning there's already been the police and your secretary."

Now _there_ was an enticing mental coin flip, which to ask first, and Jensen's slight hesitation was enough to make House realize it, too. He looked back up at the psychiatrist, a flicker of amusement along with the tension, interested as a spectator to see which way this call would go.

"What did Janice say?" Jensen asked, shooting for professionalism first over the greater curiosity. House was impressed.

"Oh, she didn't say anything specific. Nothing out of the usual. But I could tell in her body language that she's been plugged into the news since I was here last. All sorts of mental blanks being filled in."

"And what mental blanks do you think those were?" Jensen prompted.

"How pathetic I am. Why I'm here."

Jensen shook his head slightly. "You're not thinking straight, which is understandable, but the current crisis is skewing your logic a bit. Do you really believe that after you've had over a year and a half of therapy in this office, including some interesting interludes like that week I spent down in Princeton after the accident, my secretary did _not_ know why you were here long since? Your diagnosis isn't news to her."

House looked startled, then thoughtful. That point hadn't occurred to him. But she also did office paperwork, billing, had access to the files in the course of her job. And House definitely _was_ a memorable case, costing Jensen a lot of extra time and effort. If House had been a secretary in an office that had him as a patient, he would have read the entire file cover to cover months ago. He nodded slowly. "Valid point. In a year and a half, she has to have run into details, and I couldn't even blame her for specifically going looking. I've been a lot of extra work for you."

"She's worked for me for ten years. I trust her discretion absolutely. But plug that factor into her subliminal difference in attitude this morning. The _sole_ new piece of information for her in the last few days was Patrick's arrest. That's what she was reacting to. That's what my previous patient was reacting to, as well. They do _not_ see you as a pathetic case. They see somebody who stood up against a serial child abuser and blew the whistle on him. I realize it's uncomfortable to run into, but they are impressed with you, all of them. They're all on your side."

House considered that, and Jensen stood up and went back over to his desk, retrieving the notes he'd been making earlier this morning. "But going to the point of you having been a lot of extra work for me, here's a project I was doing earlier this morning. I did this for you, not me. This is an exact list from your first visit of all the days on which we have had therapeutic contact, and the other figure at the bottom is the total days in that same time period."

House looked at the list, then the totals at the bottom, surprised. The days without far outnumbered the days with. He looked back up at Jensen. "You sure you counted everything?"

The psychiatrist nodded. "I even included a few days when you were unconscious. Those conversations were one-sided, but unquestionably, I was down in Princeton that week on your behalf, as well as supporting Dr. Wilson. So fair to count those days. But those are the sessions I've had with you, all of which, remember, I do get paid for. And _none_ of which I count as a waste of time. There are certainly frustrating patients where I feel like I'm spinning my wheels sometimes. But you are not one of them, Dr. House. You have been an excellent return, not just financially but in satisfaction, on my time and effort."

House studied the list, still suspicious, but data written down, totals in black and white, was something he could understand. Jensen gave him a moment to digest that, then changed the subject, saving House the trouble. "So what about the police?"

House flinched. "I was driving up here today, thinking about . . . well, _everything_. And Monday coming up. Trying to think about positive things, but the others wouldn't go away. I didn't realize I was speeding up until a trooper pulled me over."

Jensen gave him a sympathetic smile. "And he recognized you."

House nodded. "He was _thanking_ me. Said that most people would have backed down from Patrick instead of coming back at him."

"He's right. I assume he didn't give you a ticket?"

"No. He wanted to shake my hand." House shook his head, still baffled at the impulse. Why should the world want to shake his hand? "Just gave me a warning."

"Again, he's on your side. You are _not_ a pathetic victim in this story, Dr. House. Everybody, even the ones who aren't sure how to react, is impressed with what you've done. Even my patient a few minutes ago, as awkward as that encounter was. He was glad to meet you. He wasn't judging you for being here, although he should have realized this wasn't the place for a conversation." Jensen paused, seeing the flicker of expression like a fast-blowing cloud sweep across House's face, there just for a second. "What is it?"

House looked away, as he often did in self revelation. "I'm just not used to people standing up for me, defending me."

"Like I did?"

House nodded. "You didn't even pause to _think _about it."

"Why should I? Was I supposed to take a vote first with a few recounts?"

House grinned slightly at the image. "Most people have," he said. "All my life, I've been a bother to people, even my friends."

"That perception is fallout from your father again. And your mother some, too. Most people as _children_ learn that there is someone unquestionably on their side; that's part of the security of their world view. Unfortunately, you have _never_ known that as a child or even had a truly healthy relationship as an adult until recently. But you need to assign the fault there to its correct source. This was because of your parents and the way they warped your self-esteem. It was not because of you. It wasn't something you deserved, and it should not have been that way." Jensen leaned forward a bit. "Something very important to remember on Monday, perhaps the most important thing of all. You do have people right there on your side. Dr. Cuddy, me, Dr. Wilson. Even the court officials, the judge and the prosecuting attorney. Patrick and his defense attorney will be against you, but pretty much everybody else in the room, including the media, actually, will be impressed with what you are doing and supporting you in it. It will be far more lopsided than even the two totals of days on those notes I made. You are _not_ doing this alone."

House took a drink of coffee. The concept of people, plural, multiple people being firmly on his side was still so foreign to him. John chimed in, reminding him that he was just a weakling, and House's grip tightened on the coffee cup. "Shut up, you bastard!" he snapped. "You're wrong."

Jensen nodded approvingly. "Yes, he definitely is." He changed the subject again, knowing it would soak in better if he darted away and came back rather than parking there. "So, tell me. What's the new association for the carpet glue?"

House looked up, wanting to watch the psychiatrist's expression, enjoying this revelation. "Cuddy and I are having sex in my office."


	106. Chapter 106

A/N: A couple of people have wondered about Wilson and Sandra. The answer to that one is that I truly don't know. I did warn you that the Wilson subplot would not end all tied up neatly in this story. If there is a next story (there isn't yet; but up to my muse, not me), I'm sure further developments will be related, though just as a subplot. I don't know yet what those further developments will be, because there isn't yet another story. I'd be purely guessing to state anything, as I have no influence over my muse. I do know that Sandra is serious with her Wilson "probation" and that another episode at any point would be immediate curtains for them. Nor do I know what will happen with their child. It's all up to my muse, not me. Even in a future story, it will never eclipse House; Wilson, while I like him (_trusting_ him relationally is another matter entirely), bores me rapidly when he gets too near or too long at center stage. But here ends the Wilson subplot of this story; the ending of MH is purely House centric building to the climax of the cross-examination in court. I hope you all enjoy that scene; there will definitely be fireworks and unexpected elements.

(H/C)

House didn't often get a chance to catch Jensen off guard. The psychiatrist was _so_ unflappable. Even in the middle of the current stressors, House had looked forward to dropping that final anti-trigger on him, preferably as abruptly as possible.

The shot went home. Jensen's eyes widened, and he was startled for a moment, his coffee sloshing slightly in the cup as he jumped. Then the smile started, ear to ear. "A-plus on that assignment! That's a _wonderful_ use of reconditioning. That ought to help balance the old memories."

His use of the word balance instead of replace, and the contrast between his statement and Wilson's off-the-cuff that should solve it remark took the wind out of House's sails. His mischievous grin and the light in his eyes faltered. "Yeah, right."

"You were hoping it would just fix things, weren't you?" Jensen asked. The psychiatrist had a gift for expressing sympathy without slipping over that tricky line of House perception into pity.

House looked away, his pleasure of a minute ago rapidly draining. "It's still a struggle. Even with _Lisa_, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, it still feels like a tug-of-war at times."

"That's _progress_, Dr. House. It's not failure. No, it won't just erase it magically. We're up against decades of bad associations and memories here, and even though we have the stronger ammunition now, the battle over that won't be won immediately. It _will_ be won. But realistically, given the time table we're on here, the best we can hope for by Monday is a tug-of-war, like you said."

House was looking down at his own coffee cup as if the dark liquid held the solution. "It's just . . . Lisa thinks I'm too used to being good at things."

"You _are_ good at this, Dr. House. Every one of your associations you've come up with is fantastic. I haven't got another patient in my practice who, in your shoes, would be doing as well with this."

House looked up, gauging sincerity, but the psychiatrist was absolutely serious. "Do you still want to come to court Monday?"

"Definitely." Jensen paused to mentally frame the timing question on Sunday night, making it an offer rather than a perceived need. Jensen had no doubt that House would be a basket case progressively through Sunday night and Monday morning, but there were ways of indicating that which were more likely to be accepted than others. While he was choosing words, House jumped into the verbal gap.

"No point in you driving down Monday. You'd have to get up at 5:00 a.m. at the latest. Any wreck on the highway or delay would throw your timing off. It's too long a trip."

Jensen was surprised, pleased, and suspicious. He'd never expected House to be the one to broach that issue, even in a typically backdoor Housian fashion. But there was also _something_ behind the tone there, more than just the tension of the approaching hearing. House had some ulterior motive beyond just helping him prepare or avoiding Monday morning highway traffic. Jensen considered probing it but then decided to let it go at the moment. They had too much else to deal with, and he had no wish to knock House into a defiant independence kick by digging into his motives for the decision. Whatever it was, he'd return to the point after Monday if he thought it needed further excavating. "It is a long trip. I could drive down Sunday night instead," he offered, sticking with the tone of the whole exchange, that House was doing Jensen a favor rather than vice versa.

"Make it Sunday afternoon, and you can have dinner with us. Might as well stay there; you already know the guest room."

"All right, I will. Thank you." Jensen took another sip of his coffee, giving them a microbreak. House was tenser now than he had been earlier, not that he'd been relaxed then. "Has anything else happened since Wednesday that I need to know?"

House considered. "Not really. Trigger practice, but you know about that. It's helping, just not as fast as I'd like. Thanksgiving could have been worse, even though I was hiding in the closet with the cat by the end of it." Jensen grinned. "Abby threw everybody out by the end of the afternoon."

"She threw everybody out?"

House relaxed minutely, settling into a story that Jensen could tell would become a favorite. "She just hit the limit. She's so quiet usually, just watching things, but she decided she'd had enough of being passed around all day and having our house invaded, and she threw a first-class fit."

"I would have expected Rachel to be the one to try that."

"Nope, it was Abby. Started screaming like a fire alarm any time anybody except me and Cuddy held her. It was like a switch, flipping on and off in seconds, and looking at her eyes, I could tell it was absolutely calculated. It worked, too."

"She is your daughter."

House nodded proudly. "That's the first time she's ever really shown any temper. She can scream, too. I didn't even know she could be that loud."

"Healthy lungs," Jensen pointed out, knowing that this was a vast improvement from her untimely birth.

"Finally," House agreed. His smile faded. "Then the prosecutor called first thing this morning."

"What did he want?"

"To set up a meeting. Tomorrow afternoon at 3:00 to go over my testimony. He said Patrick's been practicing psychiatrically, too, according to the guards. He's sure they're going for insanity."

"We have to stop them, then," Jensen said.

"You mean _I _have to."

"No, I mean _we_ have to. Like I said, you are not doing this alone. Remembering that point is vital. You may be the front lines, but you have a lot of people supporting you. Even on the front lines Monday, you won't be totally alone. The prosecutor can object, even in cross examination. The judge also can step in if tactics cross the line. _Nowhere_ will you have to deal with this 100% solo." House looked thoughtful, and Jensen took off on a tangent. "By the way, down to practical strategies for Monday, I have a suggestion to make."

He hesitated to catch House's curiosity, and the bait worked as usual. "What's that?"

"You know those chemical heat patches sold over the counter? The ones for sprains and aches?" House nodded. "I'd recommend putting one or two of those activated on your leg Monday." House ran a hand down his thigh, considering. "Two points, one physical and one psychological. Physically, it would help with the pain, and muscle tension will be making things worse than baseline that day. Psychologically, it's a definite, _warm_ reminder, one you can feel right there with you on the stand, of the good things you have right now. Patrick and your father both are better represented by cold. Heat would definitely weigh in on the side of the present."

"Not a bad idea," House agreed. "Back when I hurt my ankle, Cuddy iced it a few times, and she did something similar then - heating pad, hot chocolate, something tangibly warm against my skin right there that I could feel along with the cold. Not that it made it easy, and I still couldn't forget, but it _did_ help some. Any other ideas?"

"I've been thinking about strategies they might try."

"Not much question there. They already stated their strategy in the first set of legal papers. I was projecting my father onto this poor, innocent, concerned, and now apparently multiple personality citizen." House nearly spat out the last few words, and his hand, still resting on his thigh, tightened up reflexively. He flinched and loosened his grip.

"I meant going into more detail. Lines of questioning to be prepared for." Jensen sat up a bit. "I'm the defense attorney, okay?" House tensed up even more but nodded. "How do you _know_ you weren't thinking of your father instead of Patrick?"

"The first time I saw Patrick, I hadn't even been thinking of my father at all that entire day. It came out of the blue. Not a response to thoughts I was already having."

"Because of his hands, you said. How do you know that wasn't just a chance physical resemblance, something Patrick couldn't help?"

House shook his head. "It wasn't just the hands physically. Even more, it was the attitude. Dominating, reaching out, like they could already feel and control what they were reaching for. Same thing in the elevator - and no, I wasn't thinking of my father then, either. I was thinking of Abby's birthday. Again, spontaneous reaction to Patrick, not memories."

"But it was because of those memories that you wanted Christopher's case."

House shook his head. "It was Christopher's chief complaint on the ER sheet - bruising. If it had said vomiting or rash or something totally innocent, I would have left it alone."

"But when you were with them in the room, you weren't remembering your father?"

House was rapidly getting much more tense now. "It wasn't . . . there were similarities, but watching Christopher, how he reacted to him. How the boy wouldn't state what was hurting, and his eyes shifted sideways to Patrick at every question. There were differences, too, between Patrick and my father. Dad was never a manipulator. If I'd been projecting, I wouldn't have seen differences."

"What medications were you on that morning at the hospital?"

"Just the standard pain meds. I've worked with them for years; they don't cloud thought for me. I hadn't used anything stronger, any of the rescue meds, for several days before that."

"But Vicodin can cause hallucinations as a rare side effect. How do you know you weren't hallucinating and imagining these behavioral clues you thought you saw?"

"Out of nowhere? I've been on that specific pain regimen for a year and a half and taken Vicodin for over 10 years. You don't suddenly go from 0 to 60 on side effects. I wasn't stressed out that morning before the case. I've been through several stressful crises before and _not_ had hallucinations. They wouldn't have abruptly presented full-blown that morning, when I wasn't tired or stressed at the beginning of the day."

"Have you ever hallucinated your father?"

"Only when I had a severe head injury. It wasn't related to Vicodin." House shivered suddenly, remembering hell. Ice, fog, and stairs. And John.

"Dr. House?" Jensen's voice soaked through, and House blinked and focused.

"Damn it! If I can't take questioning by _you_, how am I going to take it by _him_?"

"You didn't do anything visibly odd there; I just know you enough that I was derailing a thought before it got settled in completely. But I _definitely_ recommend the heat patches on Monday. It will be a good physical presence to offset hell."

"Fine defense attorney you'd make. You should have pushed the advantage there, tried to break me."

Jensen shook his head. "I'm not trying to break you, just to prepare you a little. But you're right; I'd make a lousy defense attorney."

House sighed. "Okay, back to court."

Jensen squared his shoulders and tried to look stern. "Did you _ever_ see Patrick do anything physically to Christopher Bellinger?"

"No," House admitted.

"In fact, he was the very presence of concern, supporting Ann and the boy."

"No," House said firmly. "I _never_ saw him show concern for Christopher. His attitude all along was that the kid was making a play for attention and that nothing was really wrong. He was annoyed at being there. Never touched him, never hugged him, never said one comforting word to him."

"Did you ever see other people, such as Ann Bellinger, react with suspicion to Patrick?"

"No," House said again. "He had her totally fooled."

"But she had much more exposure to him in terms of hours than you did. How do you know you were the one who was right?"

House was getting annoyed now, and it showed. "Because we have a whole slew of physical evidence now backing me up. The pictures, the log, the computer. The shed. The rope. I was _not_ imagining it; the man _was_ abusing that boy."

"Easy," Jensen said. "I realize how irritating it is, but try not to let him get to you."

House sighed and looked away again. "We're out of time," he said, looking at his watch.

Jensen considering pushing it on but decided not to. The prosecutor would have a turn tomorrow afternoon, too. And Jensen really did not want to push House too far today. He was getting too stressed. Having a setback in today's session would only work against them. There were more questions, but right now wasn't the time.

Time. Monday looming ahead. "Damn Patrick," Jensen said fiercely, and only realized a moment later he'd spoke out loud.

House looked at him in surprise. "Right. Damn Patrick. You think I can use that line in testimony Monday?"

"I wish." The psychiatrist stood up. "Hopefully that will be the sentence at the end of it all. You're right; we've done enough today. Don't push for too much between now and then, Dr. House. You'll want to practice harder on things the closer we get. That's the wrong strategy. Sometimes, ending the session and walking away is the better choice. That _does_ help prepare in its own way."

House lurched to his feet. The leg really was bothering him. "The hot packs are a good idea," he said, reminded by his leg just how much it disliked muscle tension.

"Why don't you get a few in Middletown before the trip home? It will give you some company on the drive back. Some company besides the police, that is."

"I might do that. Don't want to push the police too far on one day."

"Let's not push _anything_ too far on one day. Take some time for yourself tonight. Don't make it pure practice."

House picked up the itemized list of sessions, unable to help looking at that final total again, still not quite believing it. "I'll see you tomorrow. About 5:30, if that would work for you."

"That works. I'll see you then." House turned and left without any further comment, and Jensen stood in the middle of his empty office. His left hand unconsciously came over to rub his right forearm, feeling the scar underneath the sleeve.

_Damn Patrick_.


	107. Chapter 107

A/N: I must throw in a plug here for one of my favorite books. Those of you who have read it will understand why it came to mind with this chapter. Check out To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, which in my opinion and a whole lot of other people's is one of the greatest novels ever written. The movie adaptation is quite good, too; Gregory Peck put in the performance of a lifetime and got a well-deserved Oscar for it. But don't stop at the movie, because the book is even better. Check it out; I guarantee you will never forget it. A truly great classic.

(H/C)

_11:45 a.m. 44 hours and 15 minutes until court_.

Jensen entered his house through the door from the garage to find Melissa preparing lunch. They had left the timing on the meal a bit open-ended, since he had told her House's appointment might run over, but he had sent her a brief text from the office saying he was leaving. He came across the kitchen to kiss her, and she returned it, carefully holding both hands out to avoid getting food on his work clothes. "Hi. How was your morning?"

"Could have been worse." Jensen backed away and sighed. "Could have been better. I'll be glad when this is over."

"So will I. Did you talk to Dr. House about timing?"

"Yes. I'm going down to Princeton tomorrow afternoon, not Monday morning."

She nodded. "I was hoping he'd agree to that. What time are you leaving?"

"About 3:30. I'll get there in time for dinner with them."

"It was on the news on the hour on the radio every time this morning. They've announced Monday's hearing now; I hope between the media and the curious that there's room in the courtroom for the people who should be there."

"The judge should draw the line and lay down some rules for the media there. Judges won't let their court turn into a circus act." Jensen looked toward the door. "Where's Cathy?" He had thought he had heard a door close down the hall a minute ago, but she hadn't appeared.

"Cleaning up her room," Melissa said with a dramatic eye roll that obviously was a copy of Cathy's response, and Jensen grinned.

"I'll go make sure she's still on track."

"Tell her lunch is in about 15 minutes, Michael."

"I will." Jensen started toward the hall, and Melissa turned her attention back to lunch.

Cathy's bedroom door was shut, and Jensen tapped on it and then went ahead and opened it. "How's the work zone go . . ." He trailed off, looking at Cathy. She had been standing with her back to the door, working on something on the bed, and she had snapped around at his knock and immediate entrance. She now stood facing him, clearly trying to use her body to hide something behind her.

"Hi, Dad!" she said brightly, but she didn't come across the room to hug him. "Have a good morning?"

"What are you doing?" Jensen sidestepped, and she sidled along the bed, trying desperately to maintain the barrier. Unfortunately, he was both larger and faster. Her backpack was the apparent contraband item, and a shirt was spilling out of it. "What are you doing?" he repeated, adding the _an answer is required here_ parental emphasis.

"Just playing a game," she lied. "Pretending I'd be going somewhere." His look was dripping skepticism. He picked up the backpack; it held underwear and a shirt, and the books it had held had been removed and lay beside it on the bed.

"Where were you _pretending_ you'd be going?" he asked pointedly.

"Nowhere special." He was unwavering, and she sighed. "To Princeton," she said finally.

"To . . ." He abruptly put it together. "You thought you were going with me to Princeton?" She studied the floor. "You mean to _court_?" She didn't answer. "No. Absolutely not. Which I think you already knew anyway, since you're trying to pack in secret instead of just asking."

She looked back up at him, trying desperately to present her case. "I heard you last night tell Mom it would really help Dr. House to have people he knew there. People on his side. So I'm going to be there to support him."

"No, you are not," he said firmly. "It's a good thought, Cathy, but you're too young to be part of this."

Her reaction was that of any child being told he or she is too young for something. "I am _not_. I understand there are people who do bad things; you guys have talked to me about that. I know this is a bad man. I saw the news. I just want to be there for Dr. House."

Jensen sighed. "No, Cathy. I'll tell him you wanted to; he'll appreciate that. But you are not going with me, and that's final." He studied the backpack. "So you were coming out a minute ago and heard me say I was leaving tomorrow afternoon, not Monday morning, so you started packing in secret for an overnight. Did you think I wouldn't have noticed you at some point in the evening?"

"I thought. . . I was going to hide in the back floorboard and come out there. I'll bet _he'd _be on my side," she insisted.

"No, he wouldn't. The only thing that would accomplish is an extra trip back. Besides, you don't think your mother would have noticed you were gone and called me long before we got to Princeton? That's assuming I didn't notice myself, and you're kind of big to fit in a floorboard, even under a blanket." She was stumped, not having thought of her mother. "You're too young to go to this."

"That's not _fair!_" Her voice was rising. "I just want to help him. You _said _it would help him."

"If life were fair, people like this wouldn't even exist, and there wouldn't _be_ a court hearing. He'll appreciate the thought, but you wouldn't be able to see the hearing anyway. Even if I took you with me, which I am _not_ going to do, the judge would kick both of us out of the courtroom before things even started. Because everybody, including Dr. House, realizes that you're too young. I'm sorry, but no."

Melissa appeared in the open door. "What's going on?"

Seeing a last-hope chance at a court of appeals, Cathy jumped in eagerly before Jensen could speak. "I want to go with Dad to Princeton to be there for Dr. House in court."

Melissa stared at her, stunned to speechlessness for a moment. "No," she said finally. "No way. Period. You're too young for this."

"But Dad said it would _help_ him," Cathy protested. "He _said _having people there on his side would help him."

"It's a good thought," Jensen repeated. "I'll tell him you wanted to come. Believe me, he'll appreciate that more than having you there. If you were there, he'd just be worrying about you, too."

Cathy looked from one to the other of them. "I haven't got any chance at all here, have I?"

"No," they replied in perfect unison.

She looked away, and her lip was quivering. "I wanted to help him too."

"Cathy," Melissa suggested, "why don't we make another batch of fudge this afternoon? Your father can take that along with him tomorrow. Dr. House really appreciated that last time. So he'd know you're thinking of him."

Cathy looked back up, still disappointed but realizing that her original plan had no remaining chance. Her dad would probably search the car now. Any hope of being a stowaway had vanished. "I guess."

Jensen closed the distance and hugged her. "It's good that you wanted to help him, Cathy. But it wouldn't work out like you wanted. I'm sorry."

She leaned into the hug, and Melissa joined on the other side. "Am I _ever_ going to be old enough to do stuff?" she asked.

"Yes. Just not by Monday."

Melissa gave her a final squeeze, then broke away. "Come on. Lunch is just about ready, and then we'll make some fudge this afternoon. Go wash your hands." Cathy trudged off obediently to the bathroom, her shoulders still drooping.

Melissa and Jensen stood looking at each other. "She was going to hide in the floorboard of the car," he said softly.

Melissa smiled slightly at Cathy's characteristic enthusiasm, even if practicality was a bit lacking. "You'll have to tell Dr. House that. He will appreciate the thought."

"I'll tell him. The fudge was a good suggestion." He looked down at the backpack again, thinking of childhood innocence, the antithesis of people like Patrick.

Melissa turned his face back toward her and embraced him, and they stood there in a hug until Cathy interrupted them from the door. "I thought you said lunch was ready."

They broke apart and looked at her. She still looked disappointed but more resigned now, starting to get into the thought of the fudge. "It is," Melissa replied. "Come on, Michael."

Jensen followed her out of the room with one look back, suddenly and fiercely grateful that Cathy had never met Patrick beyond peripherally at the wedding and never would. Yes, she would grow up, but just now, he was glad he still had the ability at least in this to protect her a little longer.


	108. Chapter 108

_Saturday, 1:15 p.m. 42 hours 45 minutes until court._

Coming home. Even with all the current tensions, it was a moment House savored every time he walked through the door. Throughout his life, he had never had a home. His many childhood houses had all had the common denominators of his father's abuse and his mother's oblivion, and he hated going there each evening, would stay out even past his expected time, not out of defiance as John and Blythe both had supposed but simply out of dread. He could still remember his stomach sinking each time he started that direction every afternoon after school. In adulthood, he had found his apartment. It had been many things: A refuge, a hideaway. It had, for the first time, been a place that was _his_. He had told himself over the years that was enough, but even then, he had known that a true home required the presence of _people_. He had simply thought that was never possible for him.

Now he had it, and the fact never ceased to amaze him every time he opened the door. His place, his people, his family. His home.

Cuddy emerged from the kitchen holding Abby when she heard him. "Hi!" Rachel beat her to him, though, scampering across the floor. House picked her up.

"Hi, kid. Miss me?"

"Game!" she said. "Time to play."

"No, it's time to eat, I think," he replied. A bit of a late lunch, but Cuddy had adjusted the schedule obligingly. "Unless you got tired of waiting for me."

Cuddy shook her head firmly. "I gave them a bit of a snack to tide them over. Wouldn't want to miss eating as a family."

"No," he agreed, suddenly reminded again of all those past years. It was over.

Cuddy came in for a group hug, both girls enclosed in the middle of it. "How was your morning?" she asked tentatively.

He sighed. "Helpful, I hope. By the way, something I need to tell you. Jensen wants to come down early and get here Sunday afternoon. It's more convenient for him with the drive than trying to do it Monday morning."

Cuddy felt a surge of relief, carefully concealed. She'd been hoping for some help tomorrow night, although she hadn't mentioned it to House. House would perceive any doubts of ability on her part as him being a burden. "I hope you invited him to stay here."

"Yes. He'll be here for dinner. So we'll have to revise our plans tomorrow night."

She nodded. "Do you want to go to your office early tomorrow morning instead?"

He hesitated. "Let's see how it goes. Might just want to play with the girls until we have to go meet the prosecutor."

"Game!" Rachel insisted. "Want the ice game!"

House flinched. The ice game. Such an innocent title for it. "We'll see, Rachel. Maybe we can do it later this afternoon."

"Want the ice game NOW!" she corrected.

"No," said Cuddy firmly. "Now we're going to have lunch."

Rachel squirmed, foiled in her plans and thus temporarily annoyed. House let her slide down, and she stood in wonder as she reached the floor instead of running off. Stretching both hands back up, she lightly touched his bad leg, which she had brushed against as he put her down. "Dada's hot," she said.

Cuddy immediately looked concerned. "It's okay," he assured her. "Hopefully you've noticed that yourself long since." She gave a token smile at his quip, but she was already reaching down with her free hand, pressing it against his leg at the same spot Rachel was touching. She jumped and immediately reached for his jeans, starting to unfasten them for a closer look. "Relax, Lisa. It's not infected. I've got a heat patch stuck to it."

She paused in her struggle to undo the button one-handed. "A heat patch?"

"Jensen's idea. He suggested them for court Monday, something warm I could have with me. I was trying one out on the way home just to make sure I could stand having something stuck there and it wouldn't bother the leg further. It did help with the drive." In more ways than one. In addition to helping physically, it did, as Jensen had predicted, give him some company, another ally in his thoughts on the side of the present. He might even keep these in mind for future bad days just physically. The heat directly against his thigh felt wonderful.

Cuddy relaxed. "That's a great idea. Come on, Greg. Lunch is ready."

"THEN play the ice game," Rachel insisted, remembering her former point.

House gave a bittersweet smile. "Yeah, Rachel, we'll play the ice game this afternoon."

Together, the family headed for the kitchen.

(H/C)

_Saturday, 6:00 p.m. 38 hours until court._

The reporter's face filled the TV screen. "Good evening, and welcome to your local news. Our top story tonight is an update on the Patrick Chandler case. An evidentiary hearing will be held on Monday at the Princeton courthouse. This will be a first look at the details of the prosecution's case, and the judge then will rule whether there is enough evidence to commit for a full trial. Dr. Gregory House is expected to testify, as well as Ann Bellinger and several expert witnesses. Chandler is facing multiple charges of physical and sexual abuse in addition to felony murder regarding Christopher Bellinger, the 4-year-old boy who died last month. Additional charges are expected in multiple other states pending the outcome of the legal case in Princeton. We will have a team on scene at the courthouse Monday, so be sure to tune in to news that evening. Chandler remains held in Princeton jail without bail until Monday's hearing, and his further fate will be ruled on then. Our next story looks at . . ."

Foreman hit the button on the remote, switching the TV off. The silence pressed in around him, a reminder that their apartment - _his _apartment - was now empty.

Chandler would be in court on Monday.

Foreman had had his first meeting with the counselor on Wednesday, and that had been harder than he'd expected. Relentless dissection even on that first appointment, like a knife cutting down through skin layers in surgery, and he had a feeling much more and deeper was to come, but he was truly beginning to wonder after that appointment whether he did have an anger problem going beyond House. Tuesday morning's attack on Cuddy had rattled him, but Wednesday afternoon had been impersonal, more scientific, and thus even more frightening. The counselor was good. After some general life history and background, they had focused at that first appointment on the most acute stressor, Remy's death and his feelings surrounding that, and one thing the counselor had been trying to do was making him see that it was ultimately Chandler behind that sequence of events, not House, not Foreman himself. That it was Chandler's fault.

Foreman still was having trouble with the concept. He still wanted to be angry at House and, even deeper, at himself. But the news tonight gave him an idea. Evidence, sort of like lab tests, data that came in to support one diagnosis or another. The reporter had said that a case would be presented by the prosecution on Monday. Not just the media, not just opinions, but cold, hard evidence.

Sitting alone in their - _his_ - apartment, Foreman decided suddenly that he would go to that hearing on Monday. He would listen to the evidence against Chandler, and he would make a reasoned, rational, informed decision whether the counselor had a point or not regarding who was at fault for this whole mess that had tripped off Remy's death. If it was in fact Chandler, Foreman wanted to know that, to watch the man, to hear the witnesses one by one and to find out Chandler's further fate from the judge at the end. Watching TV wasn't enough. He needed to _be there_.

Monday he would add a lot of missing data to his differential, and he would see what conclusions that led him to.

(H/C)

_Saturday, 9:00 p.m. 35 hours until court._

Cuddy and House lay on the blanket on the floor of his office, pulses gradually slowing. At least hers was, much faster than his anyway. Tension was already creeping back into his muscles, and she pulled him tightly against her, tracing patterns on his arm with her hand, reminding him of her presence. She couldn't smell carpet glue at all anymore, not even here down on the floor.

She knew that he could. Not that he'd said so, nor had she asked, but it was shouted in his body language from the moment he entered the office.

House lay there, feeling Cuddy against him, relishing the contact. The carpet glue pressed in on the other side of his consciousness, and he firmly pushed it back, feeling the tug-of-war in his mind.

It was getting better, but he wasn't going to beat this by Monday. Just now, he was thinking of tomorrow night, relieved that they wouldn't be here 24 hours from now. _That_ had been the motive behind his unspoken request to Jensen, though House would have died rather than admitting it to either the psychiatrist or Cuddy. Bad enough that she had to deal with him the last few nights, but tomorrow night, he had a premonition that things . . . well, that it wouldn't _work_. He knew he would be even more tense as the hearing approached. Already their office encounters had required considerably more, um, _encouragement_ than was usually needed between them. Cuddy hadn't said so, but she had to have noticed, and even if she didn't mind, even if she wasn't just doing this out of duty, he hated turning sex between them into this. But tomorrow night . . . he had been seized this morning on the drive to Middletown with an image of not being able to perform Sunday night, of Cuddy's disappointment that she would try carefully to conceal. He had never in their relationship to date failed her like that. He had some age-related frequency limitations, which both of them simply worked around without mentioning it, but never once they had started and intended to had he been unable to complete things. But he was afraid it would happen tomorrow night, and if it did, he knew that that image would be no assistance at all as a new association to think of Monday morning in court.

No, he had decided, this particular retraining would end tonight, and they'd just skip tomorrow. But how to ask Cuddy without going into details, since she would undoubtedly read doubt as him thinking she was putting up with him again, not realizing the performance anxiety that was even more of a factor. Jensen to the rescue, yet again. It had occurred to him that Jensen probably would be willing to help babysit him Sunday night, and it was a long drive anyway. Jensen would be the perfect impediment to their evening plans of late. Fortunately, the man would even take a hint, keeping House from having to ask outright, although the psychiatrist had sensed something off there, House knew. Suspicions didn't matter as long as he didn't have to talk about it. And that particular worry, he never intended to talk about.

The carpet glue surged against his mind, back and forth like a tide, ebbing and flowing, Cuddy on his other side.

She felt his tension increasing and could tell he was about to hit the limit on lying here at floor level. She sat up, looking at the clock. He had stayed down longer than last night, which had been better than the one before. They _were_ making progress. "Come on, Greg," she said. "Let's go home."

He sat up gratefully and returned her smile. "Best idea I've heard today."

She scrambled up and then almost casually offered him a hand, not making a point of it, and he took it in the same manner. She let him help as much as he could in getting up, providing assistance but not taking away anything he could contribute. They got dressed in silence, but he grabbed her hand as they left the office and held it all the way to the car, and her fingers were reassuringly warm and real in their return pressure against his.

Together, they went home.


	109. Chapter 109

Short update. Some people have asked how many chapters left, and this chapter is a perfect example of why I can't tell you that. Some of what I think of as "chapters" wind up having to be split into 2 or 3 segments due to time constraints. I see the meeting with the prosecutor as one chapter, but it's obviously turned into two and possibly more. It takes time to write it down, and I'm not fully in control of my schedule. :) Thanks for reading and reviewing! Over 1500 now, wow! I do appreciate it.

(H/C)

_Sunday, 2:55, 17 hours 5 minutes until court_

Technically, the courthouse was not open on Sunday, but Martin had told House that he would be there spending this afternoon on final preparation for tomorrow's hearing, and he would come to the door to let them in within a few minutes of 3:00, depending on how previous appointments were running. House and Cuddy got there a few minutes early, but Martin was at the door already, just letting Ann Bellinger out.

Cuddy had thought that House looked stressed from the latest events, but Ann Bellinger looked far worse. She had obviously been crying during her interview, and she seemed to have aged decades. Cuddy felt a stab of sympathy. For Ann, tomorrow would end nothing. It was just a week ago, only last Monday, that she had learned she herself had let the monster into her house who destroyed her son. She had a full lifetime of that knowledge looming ahead, even more painful than having to state it in open court tomorrow. Ann brushed past them, half turned away, unable to speak to anybody else right now, even for a simple hello. Cuddy turned to watch her lonely walk to her car. Surely some friend should have been available for moral support today? Or had she asked to come alone, not wanting to catalog her failure in front of a witness despite the knowledge that tomorrow, she would be doing precisely that in front of many? Cuddy felt a fleeting impulse to go after Ann and give her a wordless hug, offering presence instead of empty platitudes, but the impulse was brief. Cuddy was precisely where she needed to be right now, glued to her husband's side. She felt sorry for Ann, but House needed her more.

Martin greeted both of them. "Hello, Dr. House, Dr. Cuddy-House. Come on in."

They entered the silent, empty courthouse. Their steps echoed off the walls. "Not much like tomorrow," House noted.

Martin nodded. "Tomorrow will be crowded. The media will be out in force, and legally any citizen can come. The hearings are public." He reached his office and opened the door for them. "Sit down. Would you like anything to drink?"

Double scotch, House thought briefly, but it was a distant impulse from the past. He was intensely aware of Cuddy beside him. She was so much better a companion in stress than the alcohol that had once been his occasional mistress. "No, let's just get this over with."

Martin sat down at his desk. "First of all, a little better idea of procedural details for tomorrow. Like I said, the media will be here, and credentialed media will be allowed to have cameras." House flinched, and Cuddy picked up his left hand, squeezing it. "But the judge will not tolerate any kind of disruption. They will be toward the back. They are not allowed to say anything or make a nuisance of themselves. Nor will any spectators. This judge will toss anybody out of his courtroom quickly; he has very little tolerance for interruptions or distractions. He's a very fair judge, and you have to give him real, hard evidence to get a ruling, but we have strong evidence. The reason I maneuvered behind the scenes to get this on his list is his sense of decorum. It's an offense to him to have underhanded tactics in his courtroom, so the kind of things we are expecting the defense to try would particularly annoy him. Remember that. He's on your side; he won't tolerate unfair manipulation on cross."

House took a deep breath and nodded. "Who's the new defense attorney?"

"He's from Trenton, which works a bit to our advantage. He's not as familiar with this judge and hasn't been before him nearly as much as I have. I'm actually hoping he tries something and gets called down for it. That strategy would help emphasize our point of how rational and manipulative Chandler is. He has a reputation of getting his clients off by any means, even questionable ones. Of course, we have indisputable physical evidence now. There is no way to have all charges dismissed, which is why I think he'll go for the insanity defense. Chandler seems to be practicing personalities, like I told you yesterday. I'm expecting a petition to the court during tomorrow's hearing to get him transferred to a psychiatric facility for full-scale evaluation pending trial. Chandler isn't liking jail much. After one incident, a brief fight the guards broke up quickly, they've been taking him out to exercise alone, and he has a private cell, but the word has gotten around why he's here. The others are heckling him, shouting names and verdicts at him when he goes by, things like that. He wants out of this population as soon as possible."

House grinned. "Too bad," he said, and Cuddy nodded firmly in agreement.

"Yes, too bad," Martin agreed. "He deserves it, and he'll have it far worse in prison when he gets there. One other point of court decorum I need to emphasize. Nobody is allowed to speak to the defendant while court is in session except for the defense attorney or the Court. I can cross-examine if he's on the stand, but I'd be shocked if they called him tomorrow. But nobody else in the room can interact with him, including by hand gestures. It's considered contempt of court, and the judge will toss people out for it. So while the hearing is going on, you _cannot_ say anything at any point to Chandler. Works both ways; he cannot say anything to anybody except his lawyer or the judge, either. But resist the temptation to call him something appropriate as you walk by on your way to the stand."

House put on a dramatic disappointed look. "I had some _perfectly_ appropriate things in mind to say to him."

Martin smiled. "So do I, believe me. But we have to let the jury at the ultimate trial say them. Also, remember, you _must_ tell the truth at all times. Otherwise, it's perjury." House nodded. "Okay, I will be putting on the physical evidence first. The computer whiz from the police will be a very good witness; he's used to this, and he's tops in his field. Then after the expert witnesses, I'll call Lucas Douglas. He should be a strong witness, but his testimony is limited because he never interacted directly with Chandler, so he can't tell the court what you can, how continually calculating Chandler was. The defense can turn his testimony to fit the multiple personality theory. But he will give that testimony well. Then Dr. Andrews and Ann Bellinger." Martin sighed softly. "Frankly, I'm not expecting much value from either of them once the defense gets done. You will be called last. That's basic court strategy; start with a strong point, put the weaker points in the middle, and end with your strongest point for a good last impression."

House looked down at Cuddy's hand, still intertwined with his own. He hated to be thought of as the strongest point in this case. So much potential to let everyone down. Cuddy squeezed his hand firmly, and he looked up to meet her eyes. Her look of absolute confidence both baffled and reassured him.

Martin continued as if the pause hadn't taken place. "During your direct examination, I need to bring out the specific details of your father's abuse, not just summaries but a complete account of each event." _That _got House's attention, and his eyes zoomed back to the prosecutor's face. He knew in general it would come up, but he had been hoping to keep some details still to himself, not to tell everything on camera.

Martin looked sympathetic. "I realize you'd like to keep some of it off the record, but we _need_ to get that in, the things the defense knows, anyway. The carpet is relevant related to one of Chandler's attacks, and the whole story lays the ground for pulling their teeth on underhanded defense tactics. If the judge knows _exactly_ what something means to you, he will not let the defense use subtle phrases to try to trip you up, and when they try, it will count against them in his eyes. I apologize, but we're going to have to go explicitly into details, and it will be far better directly from me than underhandedly from the other side."

House looked back down at Cuddy's hand. "I guess." He shook his head. "Hell, it's not like the defense knows everything, anyway. If I actually testified to _everything_, we'd still be here next week." Even in over a year and a half with Jensen, there were specific incidents that still were new revelations.

But Patrick had unerringly picked some of the strongest, the ones with the most emotional impact, from what he'd had available. For House to give specific details in front of the judge, in front of the media, in front of the cameras . . .

"Greg." Cuddy squeezed his hand more tightly, and he looked back up at her. "Nobody's going to blame you for it."

"Right," Martin agreed. "Even the media. _Nobody_ there except for Chandler and his attorney will think worse of you. In fact, you will impress them with your strength."

Strength. Right. House sighed. "Okay."

Martin sat back. "All right, tell me the exact extended details of the carpet glue incident."

"You know them," House insisted. "It's in the notes. That's one ot the _most_ detailed incidents in the notes."

"Yes, I know them. But we need to practice now for what will happen tomorrow. It will help if that isn't the first time you've told me."

House looked back down at Cuddy's hand. "I was walking across the living room with a glass of juice. I had a sore ankle - he'd tried to twist it off recently." Cuddy flinched and then forced her hands to steady again. "I tripped and spilled the juice, and it stained the carpet. Dad actually seemed . . . understanding about it for once, just said the carpet had needed replacing anyway. He didn't seem mad. I thought maybe that once, I would get away with making a mistake without being beaten for it." Martin fought down his own slightly sick feeling and kept his face professional. He hated putting House through this. "The next day, Mom was gone all day and until very late that night; he'd sent her on a trip with friends." House shivered. "I should have _known_ then. He never let her do things unless he wanted extended time alone with me. But he seemed almost _nice_ that morning. Then after he got the new carpet down, he made me lie down on the floor, and he . . . he _nailed_ a piece right across my chest, nailed it to the floor on each side. . . not to me . . . he acted like he was, though . . . right through the heart . . . and I wished . . . I wished he would, because it would have been _over_ then." Cuddy swallowed firmly. "But the piece across my chest was tight . . . I couldn't breathe right . . . and the fresh carpet glue was all around." He looked directly at Cuddy, trying to think of her, of _them_ on the carpet the last few nights, trying not to get lost in the old childhood horror. "I was there for _hours_. He left me. He made a joke that he might never come back, that _nobody_ would ever come back. When he did come back, he . . . marched across me with his Marine boots on before he pulled the nails up."

House trailed off into silence. His hands were trembling slightly, and Cuddy gripped both of them tightly. Martin was silent for a full minute, and House finally looked up, expecting to see the pity. There was none, only compassion and, unbelievably, admiration. House swallowed. "I . . . I think I'll take you up on that drink now. Is there any coffee around?"

Martin stood up. "Yes, there's a break room down the hall. I'll go get us some. Dr. Cuddy-House?" She nodded but didn't take her eyes off her husband. Martin left the room, and House turned fully toward Cuddy. She scooted her chair closer and hugged him tightly, as tightly as the carpet had held him years ago, but so much difference between the grip of the present and the grip of the past. He closed his eyes and leaned against the firm reality of what he had now.


	110. Chapter 110

Another chapter due to ISP down time. My ISP did not like the storms of yesterday and continued to sulk for a while. Don't you wish you could spank computers and electronic gadgets? Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

Martin took his time fixing coffee for the three of them, slowly fishing out individual packets of sugar and creamer if they wanted it, dragging his feet and giving House a small break with Cuddy.

He was beyond impressed with House. He had deliberately picked that incident to start with because it was described in the therapy notes as one of the most traumatic of all, a definite flashback trigger. He had been starting with what he thought was the worst the defense had to watch how his witness reacted. House hadn't been quite steady on telling the story - dear God, how could _anybody_ have survived that with sanity intact? - but his response was a good bit better than that described in the notes, and while emotional, he had stayed grounded in the present. Of course, there was a big difference between being asked to report a narrative of events, with forewarning that you would be discussing it, and unexpectedly coming up against carpet glue itself without any time for self-preparation, as Chandler had tried to arrange for him at the hospital. Probably that stunt with the office carpet would have worked if House hadn't been told about the mishap and avoided entering his office that morning. That was another reason for pushing him through this today, so that tomorrow, he would be fully expecting it, would have already heard several of the questions. But Martin was very encouraged. House was going to do all right with this on the stand. It was putting him through hell, of course, but that accrued to Chandler's account, not Martin's. The best thing the prosecutor could do for House was to bring out all of this on direct, pulling their teeth for the subtle use of word triggers that he expected them to try on cross.

Martin should be able to win tomorrow, not only committing for full trial, which was almost inevitable, but keeping Chandler in jail meanwhile where he belonged instead of letting him use the mental health system as a cop out. Martin could feel his optimism coming back. He had deliberately put House's interview last this afternoon, because he knew that ending today with Ann Bellinger would have concluded his pretrial prep on completely the wrong note, and he had indeed felt his spirits sinking just an hour ago. Ann was one step short of an emotional breakdown, which was understandable but wouldn't help in court. He had even offered not to call her, something he could get away with at the evidentiary hearing, although it would have been too obvious of an omission in front of a jury at the ultimate trial. But Ann had doggedly insisted on going through with tomorrow. He wasn't sure if she was trying to shrive herself for guilt and oblivion by public statement of her failures or if she wanted to take part in the legal attack on Chandler to have a hand in bringing him down, but she was thinking right now purely with her guilt and grief, not with her head. The defense attorney would be able to twist her up easily, and by the end of cross, her testimony would be pretty much useless.

Martin bought a packet of six mini doughnuts from the vending machine in the courthouse employee break room; he had no idea if House liked junk food or not, but _he _found it comforting at times. Gathering up that, three cups, and a few mini creamers and sugar packets in a small box, he headed back to his office.

House and Cuddy were still sitting very close together when he entered, and she still had her husband's hand. Cuddy was another invaluable asset to tomorrow's hearing, even though she wouldn't be testifying herself. Martin distributed the coffee, put the packets in an inviting pile on the edge of his desk, then opened the doughnuts, took one himself, and offered. House accepted one immediately; Cuddy cringed as if just looking at them were bad enough. House wedged his into his mouth in one bite, then took another from the packet.

Martin finished his first doughnut and took a few swallows of coffee. "You did very well telling that," he said, picking the thread of conversation right back up where they had let it drop. "Straight narrative, things that were horrible but are over. That's _exactly_ how you should do it tomorrow."

"Only can't take a break tomorrow," House mumbled around the last of his second doughnut.

"Actually, you can," Martin corrected. "If you need to, just ask the judge if we can have a 10-minute recess. It's okay for you to say something to him while you're on the stand."

House's eyes fell again. "Boy, _that_ would really create a good impression."

"Listen to me. Nobody would hold it against you, just like nobody will hold your past against you. The judge wouldn't think any less at all of you or our case. If you need a short break, ask him for one. You can do that on cross, too. I won't ask him myself; I'll leave that in your control. But the option is there. You can use it if needed."

House had picked up a third doughnut but wasn't eating it just yet, instead turning it in his hand like his thinking ball. Cuddy eyed it pointedly. "Greg, would you _please_ eat that thing so I don't have to sit here and look at it?"

The tension broke, and House chuckled. "You think the calories will jump over there just by you watching?"

"They obviously go _somewhere_ besides into you," she countered. He shoved the doughnut in, making a show of enjoying each sweet bite. Martin grinned and took another himself, pushing the container with only one left toward House, a silent invitation. House finished it off, chasing it with some coffee.

"Okay," Martin said, returning to the matter at hand. "You did very well with that, like I said. Now, tell me about the threat against your mother."

House looked down again, and Cuddy's hand tightened on his. He suddenly jerked his away, and she looked at him in surprise. "You can't do that tomorrow when I'm on the stand," he protested.

"I can do it _now_," she insisted, recapturing his hand.

"We need to practice . . ."

"We do _not_ need to practice you doing this all alone, because you don't have to," she said firmly. "Not even tomorrow."

House looked back up at Martin, but he didn't pull his hand away from his wife's grasp again. "Dad told me from the beginning, from the time I was three on. He said I could never tell anybody, because if anybody else ever found out, then he'd have to kill Mom. He said he'd . . . kill her in front of me . . . make me watch, and it would all be. . . my fault." He paused for a minute, reminding himself of keeping Rachel safe last year, securing her position before he descended himself with John into hell. "He repeated that all the time I was growing up . . . I knew it as well as 2+2=4." He looked back down at his hand in Cuddy's, and his fingers tightened on hers, feeling the return pressure. "I believed him. I _still_ believed him, all those years. Even after I left. I really think he could have done it."

"And that's the significance of that log entry on Chandler's computer," Martin continued after a minute.

House nodded. "He hired the man in Kentucky to break into Mom's house and steal a picture of them together. I think that would have been the next step after the carpet failed. I think he was going to mutilate a picture, tear her out or something, and print that on it." He shuddered. "That one probably would have worked, too."

"But it all shows how calculating he is, what a logical, progressive campaign he led against you. We can use this. Tell me about the stairs." House flinched. "I can almost guarantee they are going to try using that phrase. We need to get this in."

"I was five minutes late home," House said slowly. "I was trying to apologize to him. I was backing away from him, down the upstairs hall, but I got up against the stairs, and I couldn't back up anymore. I was telling him I was sorry, and he said . . ." House's voice trailed off. He looked down at Cuddy's hands again. "He said he would prove to me that words didn't mean anything. Then he said, 'I'm sorry,' right as he pushed me. I broke my arm falling." He pulled his right hand loose, suddenly reaching for that old break in the mid left radius, wanting to feel the mended, sound bone beneath his fingers. Cuddy's hands followed his, caressing that spot herself.

"Do you have any proof that this all really happened?"

Cuddy's anger surged up, and she nearly dropped House's arm as she glared at Martin. "Now _wait _a minute. What the hell do you mean by. . ."

Martin spread his hands disarmingly. "It's a question that I think might come up. Not from me, of course. But the defense is clearly going to take the position that you were projecting your father onto Chandler, extending your childhood experiences rather than reacting to Chandler himself, and that is why you alone continually suspected him, while others saw his main harmless personality correctly. That argument can be twisted into two possible ways, and I imagine the defense will try both of them. First, that you were so bothered by your past you were reacting to that, not Chandler. But the other hypothesis is that you were from childhood creating fictions, things that you alone noticed about what were in the eyes of the rest of the world respectable citizens. Making up stories that you might have actually come to believe yourself. Your mother never knew, you said, in 18 years with you in the home. Your father had an honorable military career. They can challenge your view of Chandler by challenging the accuracy of your view of your father."

"I am _not_ making this up," House insisted, starting to get angry himself. His anger at least distracted Cuddy, and she shifted to pick up his hand again, turning her focus back from visually stabbing Martin to reminding House that she, at least, completely believed him.

"I believe you," Martin reminded him. "I'm just mentioning a possibility that the defense might try to present as a desperation tactic, particularly if you give your evidence as well as you are now. They might try to discredit those incidents from your past entirely as childhood imagination. They _cannot_ leave that testimony unchallenged, as emotionally charged as it is. Certainly not with a jury, probably not even with the judge. They have to challenge either your perceptions of others or your truthfulness. So tell me, is there any independent proof anywhere of this?"

House looked away again, his tone flat now. "There are medical records. Not specifically from childhood; we were in too many places, and Dad tried to vary ERs even where we lived. We didn't even go to the ER except as a last resort. But some of the old injuries still show up. I . . . if you really think it's necessary, I can get a total body scan before we go to full trial. I've never had one, but I guarantee any competent doctor you get to review it would come to the same conclusion. I've had a few other injuries in life, but there are ways to get a general idea of the age of injuries. I have way too many that would all go back decades to childhood, and the mechanism of force on some of them would look odd to a good orthopedist."

Cuddy spoke up again. "I've seen some of those records myself. On his right foot, for instance, every toe except for the great toe has multiple very old fractures. It's quite clear on MRI and x-ray. Very odd fractures, and way too many for any innocent explanation."

Martin shuddered himself. "What did he do to your right foot?" he asked.

"_Both_ feet," House corrected. "I just haven't happened to have anything requiring a scan on the left side. The whole right leg has been scanned and x-rayed and everything else several times, of course." Cuddy felt another stab of annoyance at her own dropped clues. They should have picked up on the question of abuse back at the time of the infarction. Her only defense was that everyone had been too distracted with his critical present to wonder about his past.

"What did he do?" Martin repeated. This was pushing, but House was going to be pushed even more tomorrow.

"He used vise grips," House said softly. "Several times. If I was late to dinner, or didn't call him sir every sentence, or did something he didn't approve of, he'd break a toe. He liked doing that so he could watch me trying not to limp. I think that's why he left the great toe alone; breaking it is too limiting to walking. It's by far the most important one for balance, and that _would_ have been obvious to others. But the lesser toes just hurt, and you can manage not to limp if you focus on it." House paused. "He would threaten to, though. Old torture trick; he knew all about old torture tricks from history. I think he'd _studied_ them. He was always talking about how people in history had treated prisoners. They used to focus on the big toe and the right thumb for an enemy. That way you couldn't run away, and you couldn't use your sword."

Martin shook his head. "I hope there's a special hell for people like him and Chandler."

"If he weren't already there, I'd hunt him down and kill him," Cuddy vowed. "And _yes_, I'll admit that in front of a court officer." House looked at her, surprised a bit at the fierceness in her tone.

"About a full body scan, I doubt that will be necessary, but it might be useful to have a few x-rays on hand such as the ones of your right foot if those can be easily picked up before tomorrow. Just in case the question comes up. I don't think the judge will disbelieve you no matter what the defense tries - I've watched a lot of people lying, and he has, too. You obviously aren't. But it's always nice to have independent, hard evidence of something important in a case."

House nodded. "They're at the hospital. We can pick them up when we leave here. They'll be date stamped and have my name, the hospital, and the requesting physician."

"Very good. Hopefully I'm wrong about this, but it just struck me as a possibility while I was listening to you. Your story is extremely convincing, Dr. House. They will be almost desperate to discredit you somehow." Martin took another drink of coffee, giving House a microbreak. "But we can block many of their tactics. And again, I personally believe everything you're saying, and the media will, too. Nobody except Chandler and his attorney will be against you. All right, how do you _know_ that you weren't projecting your father onto Chandler?"

House sighed and launched into another explanation. Cuddy could feel his hand trembling slightly in hers at this point, but his voice remained steady.

(H/C)

_Sunday, 4:30 p.m. 15 hours 30 minutes until court._

It seemed an eternity later when they left the courthouse. The session with Martin had been grueling, a mixture of direct and cross examination that both pulled out memories of the past and challenged perceptions of the present. House's tone got progressively more ragged. He never cracked under the questions, and his story never changed, but by the time they left, he was stretched so tight Cuddy's own shoulders were hurting in sympathy.

Martin walked them to the courthouse door. "Go home and take tonight off," he recommended. "Watch a movie. Play with your kids. Try not to think about court. You're going to do fine tomorrow, but for tonight, try to relax."

House didn't look like he'd be relaxing within the next decade. "We've got to go by the hospital and pick up the x-rays."

"But after that, we won't do anything else but go home," Cuddy stated firmly, siding with Martin. "The girls will be waiting for us, and Jensen will be getting in for dinner soon, too."

"That's the psychiatrist, right?" Martin asked. Cuddy and House nodded in unison. "So he'll be here tomorrow?"

"Yes," Cuddy replied.

"Good. You have a lot of people on your side, Dr. House. And in spite of some of those questions, I'm one of them." Martin held out his hand but waited for House to accept it. "It's an honor meeting you. I'll see both of you tomorrow."

House and Cuddy went on to the car. He had driven on the way here, but he got into the passenger's seat without saying anything, feeling that his full attention might not be on the road by this point if he were the driver. Cuddy walked around to the other side without comment and looked over at him after getting in the driver's seat. "You were great, Greg. You can do this."

He ducked away from the compliment. He looked completely wired, and she was suddenly glad that they wouldn't be going up to his office for additional activities tonight. He needed a complete break, not more trigger practice. She just hoped he'd let himself have one. She and Jensen between them would have their hands full tonight finding any way to get him to relax instead of obsessing about tomorrow. "I know we aren't going to your office tonight, and we don't need to. You need to get your mind off Patrick. No more practicing things. But maybe later on, after everybody else is in bed, we can have some _quality_ time to ourselves tonight before we go to sleep." Making love, nothing at all to do with carpet glue, John, or Patrick but just a celebration of _them_, would be a great distraction for him, she thought.

He almost always reacted positively to the mention of or promise of sex, but for some reason, he tensed up even more, and she could swear she saw a flash of fear cross his face ever so briefly before it was suppressed. "No, we couldn't . . . I mean, we'll have company tonight . . . even when Jensen goes to bed, we probably ought to keep it down, even though he'll be a couple of rooms away. We . . . tomorrow night when it's all over, okay?"

She was surprised. That wasn't his real reason. She knew a dodge when she heard one; she simply wasn't sure what or why he was dodging. She obligingly dropped the subject, though. He didn't need to be pushed on anything else tonight. "Okay. Let's go get those x-rays and then head home, Greg." She switched on the ignition, then reached over to give his hand a squeeze. "_Home_, Greg. And guess what? Neither Patrick nor your father lives there. Only me and the girls."

His grin was still tense but no less heartfelt for that. "I know," he agreed.

She put the car into gear and started for PPTH.


	111. Chapter 111

A/N: If you've never seen Stephen Sondheim's Into the Woods, check it out! Hilarious moments, thought-provoking moments, and good music. The basic premise is what if all fairy tales took place simultaneously in the same region, and it does not end at "happily ever after" but goes on to explore the "ever after."

Another forcibly chopped chapter by schedule constraints. As I count them, there are 5 chapters remaining after this one (3 of those being court and long ones), but as I counted it, this chapter and the next (Sunday night) were just one, so you can't even start counting (possibly) 5 until after the next chapter. Anyway, the story is hurtling toward the climax, which is coming soon.

(H/C)

_Sunday 5:20 p.m., 14 hours 40 minutes until court._

Wilson was cringing inside and trying not to do so physically.

They were babysitting the House girls this afternoon while House and Cuddy went to the prosecutor. Both of the kids, especially Rachel, were more wired than usual, picking up on the general increasing tension and realizing that something big was going on behind the scenes. They had woken up from afternoon nap to find their parents gone, which they'd already been told about in advance, but the babysitters were clearly considered a poor substitute this afternoon, even though the girls knew and liked both of them. Finding distractions and activities had been tough until Wilson, channel flipping in hopes of finding some show to catch their interest, had stumbled onto a broadcast of Into the Woods. The Big Bad Wolf had been on the scene right then, luring Little Red Riding Hood off her true path, and Rachel was drawn in by the wolf costume, realistic enough to get the point across but not enough to be scary. She also had heard the stories of Little Red Riding Hood, as well as Cinderella, and she finally settled down to watch. Abby still looked concerned but at least was quieter than Rachel, and she sat peacefully enough in Sandra's lap on the couch, her gaze wandering back and forth between the screen and the front door where her parents should be coming home later (an oft-repeated promise this afternoon). That left Wilson and Sandra to watch the movie themselves, of course picking up far more of the mature plot bits than the girls.

To Rachel, who was sitting on the couch between him and Sandra and companionably partway leaning against Wilson, it was a light-hearted fairy tale. To Wilson, watching Prince "I was raised to be charming, not sincere" and his brother maneuver and pursue _multiple_ women, regardless of whether any of them were in a relationship just then or not, purely basing actions on what looked enticing and attractive at the moment and getting bored with staying in one place relationally too long, the plot seemed almost like a condemnation. Had he really been that purely pleasure-seeking, that _superficial_ though his life? He wasn't that bad, surely. He fought down another fidget, knowing Rachel would notice, and she was finally quiet and absorbed. Still, Wilson knew the chorus of wondering when her parents would be getting back home was just waiting for any cue to set it off again.

The doorbell rang, providing just that cue. Rachel bounded off the couch so quickly that she tripped and fell. Wilson quickly set her back on her feet again. "Slow down, Rachel. You okay?"

She ignored the question and ran toward the door. "Dada!"

"Not likely," Wilson muttered as he followed her. The door was bolted because Rachel had already been trying to open it this afternoon to go out to search for her parents herself. She couldn't quite open the heavy front door yet, but neither Wilson nor Sandra wanted to take the chance. But House and Cuddy, of course, had keys to the dead bolt. Wilson opened the door to reveal Jensen, suitcase and small Tupperware container in hand.

"Hi," he said. "Come on in." Cuddy had mentioned that Jensen was coming in tonight to save himself the drive early tomorrow, obviously a euphemism for saying he was going to help keep House from bouncing off the walls tonight in pre-court nerves, although under Cuddy's wilting glare Wilson didn't point that out.

Jensen stepped in, and Rachel ducked around him to head out the door. Jensen set the suitcase down and fielded her neatly as she scampered by. "No, Rachel. You don't need out there. It's cold."

Rachel pushed futilely at his arms, trying to escape. "Dada!"

"He isn't out there with me." Jensen looked at Wilson. "He isn't back from the prosecutor yet?"

"No." The oncologist looked at his watch and frowned. "They ought to be."

Jensen looked at his own watch for confirmation, although he already had a good idea of the time. The prosecutor had sounded quite experienced and adept from House's brief description. This was bound to be a much harder meeting than that Wednesday morning, but surely he wouldn't push his prize witness to total collapse today. That meeting had gone on for far too long and would be becoming counterproductive by this point.

Abby interrupted his thoughts from Sandra's lap. "Dada?"

"No, sorry. I realize I'm a poor substitute." Jensen moved on into the room, still holding a protesting Rachel, and Wilson ducked around them to close and rebolt the door.

"Sandra, you remember Jensen from last year, don't you?" Wilson asked.

She nodded. "Of course, the way you all were taking shifts in the ICU. Good to see you again."

"And you," Jensen replied. He sat down in the chair, and Rachel squirmed out of his grasp and went over to stretch up toward the door knob again, ignoring the musical which was still playing.

Wilson captured her. "Nope, Rachel, he isn't out there yet. He'll be home soon." As he steered her away, the white cat emerged from cat warp, coming into the edge of the living room and looking at Jensen accusingly. "No, Belle, he isn't home yet."

"Belle!" Temporarily diverted, Rachel started after the cat, and Wilson let her go. He dropped back onto the couch, subconsciously preserving the distance between himself and Sandra.

"Thank you for the name of that counselor in Trenton," Sandra said softly. "We'll call him for an appointment once we get past tomorrow."

"You're welcome," Jensen said. Watching those two, with the gulf still between them, reminded him of himself. He and Melissa had had a different set of problems than Wilson, but the same lesson was in effect. Even realizing that you love each other, which had never been in doubt for either Jensen or Melissa, still left the enormous task of making the relationship work, including changing what gets in the way. Love was a great starting point, but it alone wasn't enough. Jensen really felt for the other two and wished them success in the hard road ahead.

They all heard the car door outside that time. Rachel and Belle both came running back down the hall. Jensen got to his feet and looked out the front window, taking his first reading of the evening. Cuddy had been driving. She looked concerned and hiding it. House looked completely strung out, and his limp was worse than usual. Jensen tossed up an arrow prayer for this evening and the challenges ahead.

Wilson went over to unbolt the door, picking up Rachel to keep her from trying to open it and run out coatless in the cold November air.

House and Cuddy entered. He was immediately all but assaulted by Rachel, who actually knocked him off balance a bit. He reset himself and picked her up. "Hi, kid. Did you miss me?"

"Whatever gave you that idea? Believe me, you have _no_ idea what this afternoon has been like," Wilson replied.

House gave him an attempt at a grin. "We'll double your pay for the evening." Wilson and Sandra were working for free.

Abby was flip-flopping herself, and Sandra used the remote to switch off the TV, then stood up, coming over to the group by the door. Cuddy tried to take the baby, but Abby stretched out toward House. He let Rachel slide down, still attached to his leg, and took his younger daughter. "Hi, Abby."

"Did you have any problems with them?" Cuddy asked.

"Not really, but they were restless," Sandra replied. She looked at House, who was holding Abby, still having his good leg hugged by Rachel, and with Belle now curving between his ankles. "They know something's up," she continued softly.

Wilson was afraid to ask directly about the prosecutor's meeting with House right there. He didn't want Cuddy to bite him. "We thought you'd be back a little earlier."

House answered before Cuddy could. "Had to go by the hospital for x-rays." Sandra, Wilson, and Jensen all looked concerned, taking that comment in the wrong context completely, and House quickly continued. "_No_, nobody's hurt. Martin just thinks it would be a good idea to have some kind of proof for tomorrow that my past really happened and I'm not making everything up."

Wilson flinched. _That_ possible attack on cross had never occurred to him. For the first time, he noticed the large PPTH envelope Cuddy was carrying.

House handed Abby off to Cuddy, and his daughter didn't protest the exchange this time, although she was still watching him, not her mother. He leaned down to extract Rachel finger by finger. "Got to let me walk, kid. I need to use the bathroom." She let go reluctantly. "I'm not going anywhere right now," House assured her. "Just down the hall. Okay?" She backed off but watched him head for the restroom. Belle withdrew a few feet the minute he started to walk, carefully staying out of his 3-legged path.

The bathroom door closed, and Cuddy let out a deep breath. "Tough afternoon?" Wilson asked softly.

She nodded. "Martin was pushing him today. Never quite all the way, and he would back off, too, but it was a rough meeting. Greg did really well, though." She set the envelope of x-rays down on the coffee table. "It never occurred to me that they might not believe _any_ of it."

"The defense knows it's true," Jensen said. "They might try to question it as a desperation tactic, though. That one hadn't occurred to me."

Wilson opened the PPTH envelope and pulled out the contents. Cuddy and House had taken some time in the imaging room selecting the best few views. Of course, he had never specifically had scans focused on his toes, but the damage did show up incidentally on some other films. They had the best x-ray and also a few printout shots from an MRI. Wilson held the x-ray up to the window, and Sandra and Jensen both couldn't help coming in closer beside him, studying the picture. Sandra flinched and swallowed firmly. Her stomach had been feeling better on House's prescription, but it twisted inside her just now.

"Really, the toes are amazingly straight considering," Wilson noted. "All the old fractures, of course, but they also look almost like they were set."

"I set them," House spoke up from the hall, and they all jumped. He could be so _quiet_ for someone with a disability.

Wilson was unable to resist a follow-up question. "_You _set them? When you were just a _kid_?"

House looked at him. "Wilson, I knew broken bones needed to be set and held straight before I was 5 years old. I used Popsicle stick pieces and tape. I'd stop after leaving the house in the mornings on the way to school, fix them up for the day, take it off before I got home so he wouldn't happen to find out during the evening, and then tape them up again when I went to bed - as long as Mom was there that night so he wouldn't be . . ."

He trailed off, and Cuddy quickly crossed the room to his side. "You've had enough of talking about things today, Greg," she said firmly.

"Popsicle!" Rachel suggested, confused by how serious the adults seemed but pulling a word she knew out of that last speech.

House grinned. "No, we probably need to eat dinner first." The grin faded. His stomach was tied into triple knots right now. He couldn't imagine eating anything.

"By the way, I have a present for you from Cathy," Jensen said, quickly changing the subject. He picked up the Tupperware container from where he'd set it down. "Fudge, round two."

"Fudge!" Rachel approved. House was still looking both tense and slightly sick, but he gave a weak smile.

"After dinner," Cuddy said firmly.

"We'd better get going," Sandra stated with a pointed look at Wilson. She knew he would be tempted to stay and try to help tonight, and she knew that tonight, Jensen could do it better. She walked over to House herself and surprised him by giving him a hug. "I am _not_ coming to court tomorrow," she said as she released him. "I'll be thinking of you, though."

"Thanks," he replied, not limiting it to just the latter part of that communication.

"See you later. Come on, James."

Wilson hovered. "See you tomorrow, House."

"See you," House replied. Sandra shepherded Wilson out, and the door closed behind them.

"I need to do something about dinner," Cuddy said. "Something quick and not much bother. Any suggestions, Greg?"

He shook his head. "Whatever." With one last worried glance, she disappeared toward the kitchen and left him with Jensen.

House paced to the window. "He really thinks they might challenge _everything_ tomorrow."

"You've had enough of talking about tomorrow," Jensen insisted. "We're going to do other things tonight. Speaking of tomorrow, though, Cathy would have amused you. I went into her room and found her packing her backpack. She was going to stowaway this afternoon in the back floorboard so she could go to court in the morning."

House turned away from the window to stare at the psychiatrist. "In the _floorboard_? And then going to the hearing? She actually thought that would work?"

Jensen nodded. "Practicality isn't her strong point."

House actually laughed briefly. "She reminds me of Rachel in a few years." His expression softened. "Tell her thanks for me, okay?"

"I will," Jensen promised.

Cuddy, in the kitchen but with all senses still tuned toward the living room, heard him laugh, although she wasn't sure at what. Another wave of gratitude toward Jensen surged over her. With a worried smile, she turned her thoughts toward dinner, trying to ignore the chilling shadow of the long evening ahead looming over them.


	112. Chapter 112

_Sunday 6:15 p.m. 13 hours 45 minutes until court._

They sat around the table eating, a nice family unit, House thought - the husband, the wife, the daughters, the psychiatrist. At least trying to eat. Cuddy and Jensen were both as focused on him as they were on their own plates, although Jensen was better at hiding it. Cuddy was looking concerned, which made him feel guilty. House was feeding Abby and Cuddy feeding Rachel in between their own bites, but even the girls were restless and preoccupied. House himself was having to force down every bite. He wouldn't remember 10 minutes later what the meal had even been. His stomach was still knotted up, and he could almost hear a cosmic clock ticking, counting off the rapidly dwindling seconds until he would take the stand and go into explicit detail in front of the court and the media about his past and about Patrick and then have the whole thing challenged as a lie on cross examination.

Cuddy tried to give Rachel another bite, and the child twisted away. "No!"

The spoon followed her. "Yes," Cuddy countered.

Rachel shook her head vigorously. "No. Fudge."

Jensen smiled. "You have to eat dinner first, Rachel." Rachel looked at her father, plate still mostly full. House gave a sigh and picked up his fork again.

"You can _all_ have fudge after we eat," Cuddy agreed.

House forced in another bite. Not even fudge was sounding good at the moment, but Rachel was watching him. So was Abby, although she at least didn't say anything.

"Tell me about Abby at Thanksgiving," Jensen requested.

House started to put down his fork again, and Cuddy jumped in. "I'll tell him, Greg. Keep eating. It had been the _longest_ day. People all over the place, couldn't turn around without bumping into someone. Of course, Abby was the reason everyone had been invited in the first place, so she was being handed around from one to the other the whole day." Cuddy launched into the extended, detailed version of Abby's antics at Thanksgiving, followed by a few other stories of the girls, she and Jensen stage managing the conversation beautifully. House would have protested the obvious attempt at distraction if he hadn't been too preoccupied with court to have any energy to spare. He sat quietly listening and trying to eat. Finally Rachel's plate was empty and his mostly was. Good enough, he thought. He really didn't think he could force down anymore. He stood up quickly - _too _quickly - and winced as his leg stabbed him. He gripped the edge of the table, giving it a few seconds, then picked up his plate and started for the kitchen.

"We'd better get things cleaned up," he said, a statement so un Housian that Cuddy and Jensen both looked sharply at each other and then at his retreating back.

"Fudge first!" Rachel protested.

Jensen laughed. "You've got your priorities straight, haven't you, Rachel? You're right. I'll get the fudge." He got up to retrieve the Tupperware container, and Cuddy followed House to the sink, where he had emptied the remains of his food into the garbage disposal and now was rinsing the plate.

"Come on, Greg. I'll clear things later. Rachel's ready for some of that fudge, and you have to have the first piece. It's your fudge, after all."

"I'm not sure I can eat anything else," he said softly.

"Just one square. Cathy will probably be asking how you liked it. She made it for you."

Cathy. He turned around and trudged back to the table as Jensen returned with the container and opened it. Rachel started to grab from her high chair, and Cuddy captured her hand firmly. "This is your father's fudge, Rachel. He gets the first piece." She settled back, accepting this, and House slowly picked up the first square and took a bite, then handed a square to Rachel and pinched off a bit for Abby. It _was_ good fudge. Jensen took one. Cuddy eyed the fattening chocolate squares.

House grinned suddenly. "You _have_ to have one, Lisa. This is a designated family activity. We're all doing it _together_."

The light in his eyes, albeit temporary, was well worth the calories. She took a piece, and Jensen hid his amusement. House and Cuddy both wound up having 2 squares, him taking the second just to make her have another one, and the girls each munched on their smaller portions. House couldn't go on after that and fastened the lid back.

"Don't worry about cleaning things up, Greg," Cuddy insisted. "I'll do it at some point. It will be bedtime for the girls soon -"

"NO!" Rachel insisted.

Cuddy continued, ignoring the interruption. "So why don't you do something with them for a little while?"

House considered. "Play the ice game," Rachel suggested.

The _ice game_. House flinched. No way was he trying that; it wouldn't be anything close to a game tonight, not that it ever had been, but tonight would be worse. "No, Rachel, we already played the ice game this morning."

"Pa-no?" Abby asked. They all looked at her.

"That's a new one," Cuddy noted.

"Pa-no," Abby repeated, more distinctly that time.

House sighed. "Okay, Abby. I'll play the piano for a while for you." He stood up and carefully got his balance set. Damn leg was bothering him tonight. He scooped up Abby from her high chair and started for the living room, and Rachel immediately began pounding on her tray. House cringed. He couldn't carry both of them.

Cuddy quickly got up and lifted Rachel free. "Quiet, Rachel. You know he would have come back for you."

Rachel shook her head, out of sorts tonight. "Me _first_."

"Abby was the first one to ask," Cuddy pointed out.

Rachel stalked off into the living room, where House had just put Abby on the couch and started for the piano bench. Rachel scrambled up onto the couch and then deliberately reached over and pinched her sister, hard. Abby howled, and House turned back quickly, having missed that exchange. "What's the matter, Abby?"

Cuddy had seen it, though. She was at the couch almost as quickly as House was, and as he picked up Abby, she scooped up Rachel. "Rachel, you do _not_ pinch your sister. That was bad. Apologize to her."

"No," Rachel said.

"She _pinched_ her?" House asked. Cuddy nodded. House sighed.

Cuddy gritted her teeth. He did _not_ need to deal with this tonight. "Rachel, apologize to your sister, or you are going to bed right now while Abby stays out here to hear the piano."

"NO!" Rachel insisted.

House tried to intervene. "Just a minute, Lisa. She's only wound up because . . . well, because of _me_. Doesn't seem right to punish her for that."

"She doesn't get to pinch people, even on a tense night," Cuddy replied. "She needs to learn that."

Jensen spoke up softly. "She'll be back. It's not a bad idea."

Cuddy nodded. "It's _okay_, Greg. Rachel, you're going to your room right now." Rachel started howling herself, pushing against Cuddy, fighting her. Cuddy captured her hands firmly, stopping the attempted blows, and carried her back toward the nursery, shutting the door.

House still was holding Abby, but he sat down on the couch, not the piano bench. "I have _no_ idea what discipline is," he said suddenly. "I don't know how to handle things. How the _hell_ can I do this and not totally screw it up?"

Realizing that he was referring to fatherhood, not right then to court the next day, Jensen replied, "Let your wife help you. That was a good idea. She isn't going to make Rachel stay in there all night, just keep her until Rachel settles down, thinks about what she's missing because of her own actions, and then agrees that it was wrong and that she needs to apologize to Abby. But you aren't going to screw this up. You're a wonderful father."

Abby was looking at him, and she reached up with one concerned hand to trace his face. "Pa-no?" she repeated. Her sister was forgotten, but her father was upset, and she knew it calmed him. "Peas."

House laughed, even though he was still feeling shaky. "Well, when you put it like that." He moved Abby over to put her on the couch again and stood up himself.

Jensen sat down in the chair and smiled at Abby. "_That _one is very perceptive."

"She is that. Always watching, like she's taking notes on the world." House sat down at the piano and looked down at his hands. They were shaking slightly. He started slowly, gentle, easy pieces simply because he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to play something harder right now, but Abby didn't seem to care about the difficulty of his selection. She settled back into the couch cushions, listening, and gradually, the music took over, and any minor uncertainty in the notes at the beginning vanished. He switched into a medley of Disney songs, things that he knew she would recognize. He didn't hear the door to the nursery open, though Jensen did. House jumped slightly as Cuddy and Rachel, hand in hand, appeared at the end of the couch. Rachel's face was tear streaked, but she looked a lot calmer than she had a few minutes ago.

"Rachel has something she'd like to say," Cuddy informed them.

Rachel walked over to the couch to her sister. "I 'pologize, Abby," she said. She reached out and gently traced the small red spot on Abby's arm, already fading.

House smiled, and the music picked up a beat. Cuddy sat down on the couch next to Abby. "Come here, Rachel," she urged, and Rachel climbed up into her lap. Cuddy held Rachel with Abby leaning against her, and they all listened to House play. Gradually, the girls started to get drowsy in spite of themselves. House noticed and modulated the selections, shifting more into soothing lullabies. Finally, they were sound asleep.

Cuddy let out a sigh. "Good job, Greg. I was afraid we'd never get them down tonight."

He hit his final chord and let the piano drift into silence. "We'd better move them." He stood up and winced again. Jensen noticed, but the psychiatrist didn't offer to carry one of the girls back himself, which _House_ noticed and appreciated. House carefully picked up Abby, and Cuddy stood with Rachel. As quietly as possibly, they retreated down the hall.

Cuddy came back into the living room a few minutes later alone, House having stopped in the bathroom. Jensen wasn't there - he turned out to be in the kitchen, rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher himself. She came up behind him and spoke very softly. "Thank you so much for asking if you could come down early. He never would have asked you himself, but I know he appreciates it, too."

Jensen was normally very adept at concealing his reactions, but just now, he was under a lot of tension himself. Consequently, he was unable to hide the momentary flicker of analysis of her statement as he turned to face her, and she saw it. "He brought it up?" He didn't reply. "He specifically told me - well, strongly implied anyway - that you initiated that. Not that it matters, really, I guess. I'm just surprised he would have."

What surprised Jensen more was that House would have presented that in a definitely misleading way to Cuddy. House valued honesty extremely, for all his manipulative ability. The psychiatrist was reminded again of his earlier thought in yesterday's appointment, that House had some ulterior motive there besides the obvious one of wanting help with pretrial nerves. Something else was going on here.

"Something else is going on here, isn't it?" Cuddy asked, echoing his thoughts.

Jensen sighed. "Maybe. But tonight is _not_ the time to push him on it. Whatever his reasons, the result was a positive one."

Her head turned as she heard his off-beat footsteps from the other room - his leg was clearly giving him hell tonight. "Lisa?"

"In here," she called.

He appeared at the doorway and studied the two of them. "Cleaning up the kitchen can wait," he said peevishly.

"You're the one who wanted to a while ago," she pointed out.

"While the girls were still up. That's different. They're asleep now, so we can do more productive things." He looked at Jensen. "You can play defense attorney some more."

"No," Jensen replied, a rock-solid refusal. "We aren't going over your evidence any more tonight, not even on direct."

House turned away, pacing into the living room restlessly. "I wasn't ready. He was still able to throw me briefly here and there this afternoon. And _he_ was being nice. The defense attorney will be a lot worse."

"You did great this afternoon, Greg, and you _don't_ need to go over this tonight. You've had enough for today." Cuddy caught up with his jittery circle and put a hand on his arm. "Why don't you play the piano some more? Play the serenade for me." Jensen ducked past them, going into the first guest room.

House shook his head. "I probably wouldn't be able to do _that_ right tonight, either."

"Either?" Cuddy asked, confused. "In addition to what?"

House pulled away from her abruptly and resumed his orbit, even more agitated than he had been a minute ago. "Oh, just about anything." He came to a limping halt, staring out the window. "This happens _tomorrow_, Lisa. Tonight is the last time slot we have to prepare."

She came back up alongside him. "Greg, the best preparation tonight is to get your mind off it. Don't try to just _toughen yourself up_ again." He flinched. She slid an arm around him. "It will be okay tomorrow."

"And on what authority do you promise that?"

"Because I _know_ you. Patrick hasn't got a chance, and neither has his lawyer. But tonight is the last chance for a break, and that _will_ help tomorrow."

They both heard Jensen come back into the room, followed by some odd rattles and clicking sounds. House turned around, giving in to curiosity. "A _chess_ set? You seriously want to spend tonight just playing a _game_?"

Jensen finished arranging the pieces on the coffee table. "Think of it as strategy practice. This _will_ be good preparation for cross tomorrow. Strategic maneuvering is strategic maneuvering, even if the subject matter is different. Come on; you told me once that you knew how to play."

House shook his head. "I'm out of practice, though. And I didn't know _you _played."

"Not often," Jensen admitted. "But sometimes when the family gets together, I'll play a little. Usually with Mark; he loves chess." Jensen recapped the box and set it on the floor. "Black or white?"

House studied him. "You aren't kidding, are you?"

"No. Black or white?"

House sighed. "Black," he said finally. Jensen oriented the board and nodded to the place on the couch beside him. House sat down, his mind still in the courtroom tomorrow.

Jensen beat House in eight moves. House sat stunned, staring at the board. "That was classic. You play _now and then_?" And how had he missed seeing that opening and blocking it?

The psychiatrist nodded. "Really. I'm nowhere near as good as Mark is. It's just something I enjoy doing with him, but he beat me every time over Thanksgiving."

"And how good is Mark?" House asked.

"New York state chess champion two years ago," Jensen replied smoothly. "That's not really relevant, though, since he's not here. The question is, and that game certainly wasn't an answer, how good are you?"

House reached out and reset the board.

(H/C)

It was many, many rounds later - 3 for Jensen, 4 for House, and 1 stalemate - that they all headed for bed. Cuddy finished brushing her teeth and emerged from their private bathroom just in time to see House gulp down his handful of evening pills. "Greg, I _wish_ you'd take some water with those," she said pointedly.

"Haven't choked yet," House replied. He kicked off his shoes and started to unbutton his shirt.

"It's a wonder." She studied him, something tickling at the back of her brain. What was unusual here? Something about the nightly routine . . .

"Come to bed, Lisa," House asked. He pulled his pants off, slipped on a loose pair of sweats, and climbed between the sheets. She undressed herself and crawled in on her side. "Don't forget to set the alarm clock," he said.

She did so, then snuggled down next to him, full length contact. He pressed into her, burying his nose in her hair. "Good night, Lisa."

"Good night, Greg." She was tracing circles on his arm. He was still tense to put it mildly, but she could feel the sleeping pill kicking in after a few minutes. Reluctantly, he fell over the edge into medicated rest for the night. She let out a deep breath and reminded herself that by this time tomorrow, the evidentiary hearing would be over. They hadn't had much chance for talk alone tonight, but he didn't need talk tonight anyway, just reassurance.

Wait a minute. Abruptly, the anomaly that had tickled her brain a few minutes earlier clicked. He had taken his nighttime meds, sleeping pill included, the minute he got to the bedroom, not even taking time to undress first. He didn't usually take them until she was already out of the bathroom and they were a few steps nearer to going to sleep.

That meant something. It _had_ to mean something. House would not suddenly change an established routine of over a year and a half just under tension of the moment. The action had to have been deliberate.

But what was accomplished by taking his meds as early as possible? What was the difference between then and five minutes later?

Time with her. He hadn't wanted to be in bed with her until the dose was already irrevocably taken and would soon be kicking in. He had snuggled up just as usual, enjoying the contact as much as she did, but he hadn't wanted to linger tonight in bed with her, rather finding unconscious oblivion as soon as possible.

Suddenly she remembered his statement from yesterday, when he'd told her Jensen was coming early and had definitely implied that that had been Jensen's request. Riding immediately on the coattails of that communication had been that consequently they couldn't have sex in his office tonight. It hadn't struck her as odd at the time because she hadn't thought trigger practice this close to trial was a good idea anyway, but now, it made her wonder, especially crossed with his statement on leaving the prosecutor's office that he didn't even want sex _here_ tonight, a very odd attitude from House, and his comment this evening that probably he couldn't play the serenade right tonight, either. _Either_.

He was scared. He was afraid, not just of tomorrow's hearing, but that he would be too tense to perform tonight, whether in his office or here, and that as a result, she would be disappointed in him.

The thought would have made her laugh if it hadn't obviously been such a true concern to him. Honestly, she had _no_ complaints about their sex life, and that wouldn't change in the slightest based on one failure under extreme stress, even if that failure had happened, which she didn't think was a given. But men were so absurdly sensitive at times. Based on how quickly he took the sleeping pill, that worry had been yet another thing on his mind throughout tonight.

She shook her head and looked at the outline of her husband's face on the pillow beside hers in the dark. She ran one hand affectionately through his hair. "Greg," she said softly, "for such a genius, you are an _idiot_ at times, you know it? It wouldn't have mattered to me."

He didn't answer, solidly out under the meds. She reached over to reset the alarm clock and then settled down against him, closing her own eyes. But her mind was gnawing at the bone of the hearing tomorrow, and it was a long time until she found sleep herself.


	113. Chapter 113

Saturday morning tidbit. Sorry, folks, but you have to take it in the doses I have time to write it in. The next chapter will be getting ready in the morning, and then after that next chapter, we land in court. Court will take up several chapters, but it is right around the corner. The hint for next chapter is the movie Ghostbusters, and I'll bet nobody can figure out what Jensen and I are going to do with that. :) Thanks for reading and reviewing. We really are almost to the courtroom.

(H/C)

_Monday - the day of the evidentiary hearing_

Cuddy's alarm clock went off, jolting her out of uneasy dreams. She pounced on it, silencing it quickly, and then looked at the message of the red glowing figures just for verification.

They had mutually agreed last night on 5:00 a.m. as getting up time, leaving them time to get ready and eat without being pushed (and extra for any problems that arose) and still getting to the courthouse well before 8:00 a.m. The courthouse should be a zoo with some extra traffic and navigation time required. So 5:00 was the designated lift-off point to the day. They hadn't stayed up that late, either, allowing time for a good night's sleep, even if artificially produced. House, of course, was being drugged into sleep every night right now, the dosage on the sleeping pills as high as they had ever had it.

It wasn't yet 5:00 a.m., though. Cuddy had reset the clock earlier after her realization of the previous evening. Now, she switched on the bedside lamp and propped herself up on an elbow, looking at her husband.

His face was a map of the stress of the last weeks underscored by pain. He hadn't taken any extra pain meds last night. Cuddy had wished they could try it, as his leg had been giving him hell, but the morphine always left him a bit foggy and had a lingering effect that the sleeping pill alone did not. It probably would have worn off well before he took the stand, but even to suggest it would simply have given him one more worry bone to gnaw. He would definitely need all the substantial power of his mind at his disposal during his testimony. So the only factor in play at the moment was the sleeping pill. The drug was extremely effective for him, more so even than for most people, but after over a year and a half of data from different dosages, she knew exactly what effects to expect when. Right now, it should be wearing off but wouldn't have totally released him from its grip yet. He could be woken up right now, but not easily, and his climb to consciousness would be a slow one.

Which was just what she was counting on.

She slipped out of bed herself and padded around to his side, getting on his right. She flipped the covers off him and slowly worked his sweat pants down. She studied the scar, the deep, gnarled chasm in his thigh. It seemed almost emblematic of his life in general. How could one person deal with so much adversity in life and not totally break? House had no idea how strong he was. Cuddy had never thought of him as weak, but since they had been together, since so many blanks of the past had been filled in, she was even more amazed that he had survived. Not only survived, but that he had had a productive, successful life.

She scooted down the bed a little and picked up his right foot, peeling his sock off, studying the toes. They were, as Wilson had noted from the x-ray, remarkably straight considering. The image of House as a young boy setting them himself, using tape and sections of Popsicle sticks, suddenly appeared in her mind, as vivid as if she were watching a movie, and she blinked back the tears. She mustn't cry, not this morning. This morning was all about him, and he would misinterpret any strong emotion on her part as either doubt or some place where he had failed. But she filed that image off in a private mental box, just for herself, and she knew that at some point soon, she would be shedding those tears for that lonely, hurt boy, the tears that nobody at all had shed for him at the time. Anger against Blythe flared up again, and she beat it down. That, too, had its place, and that place was not this morning. Picking up House's foot, she kissed the toes one by one. "I'm sorry, Greg," she whispered.

He shivered, and her first thought was that he had heard her and plugged in John mentally. Her second thought was the fact that it was, after all, late November, and she had taken away his covers, stripped him off, and sat here looking at his bare foot for several minutes. She looked at the clock; she had been lost in reverie longer than she had realized, but she had also allowed time for proceeding slowly. Cuddy put his sock back on, then moved the covers back over, carefully tucking in his feet. Now the leg. She pulled the packet of heat patches out of the nightstand, removed one, opened it, and stuck it to his leg just below and to the outside of the scar, where it could have effect on the general leg muscles but not interfere with further plans. Next, she put both hands on the scar and gently began to massage it. She knew that his leg tended to go into spasms if he moved abruptly on waking up without taking the time to ease it into the day. Above all, she didn't want to hurt him. He needed to wake up gradually, to love and not to pain.

She pushed a little bit deeper into the scar, and House withdrew slightly, then stilled. Slowly, methodically, she worked on his leg, easing the nighttime kinks out of it, and eventually, each stroke of the massage started going progressively higher.

It took several minutes for his mind to come on line, and she saw the fleeting flash of fear in his eyes as he opened them and realized what she was doing, but by then, his body was already awake, and in spite of his anxiety, it had taken over.

(H/C)

Cuddy lay on his right side, snuggled against him, catching her breath and feeling him catch his. She could feel the dip of his thigh against hers, the heat patch below that. She didn't pull away, trying to pass on the silent message. She knew the imperfections, and they didn't matter to her. Her head was on his shoulder. "Good morning, Greg," she said finally, the first words either of them had spoken since he woke up.

He chuckled softly, his breath tickling her ear. "Good morning." He was relaxed at the moment, still riding the wave of endorphines, out of the fear of failure and not back yet into the fear of court. "That's quite an alarm clock."

"So much nicer than an electronic buzzer, isn't it?"

He gave a low hum of agreement, and they lay there silently for a little longer. She could feel the exact moment when past and future fears caught up to the rest of him, and he tightened up slightly. At least she had given him a bit of a break from them. She felt his head turn and knew that he was now looking away from her. "Greg, what are you thinking?" she asked. She could have made a good guess, but she wished he would talk about it. His opening up would be even better than her working it out on her own.

He sighed. "Nothing." She didn't contradict him, didn't push him, but her silence was heavy with skepticism. Finally, he continued. "I . . . there's one way I've never failed you yet. I'm just glad we didn't start now."

Cuddy sat up, her anger kicking up now. "There's _one_ way you've never failed me yet? Greg, after all this time, you still believe that? That bed is some kind of last fortress where even if you've screwed up everything else, you haven't lost this one - yet?" He looked away. "Greg, listen to me. You have _never_ failed me. Not as a husband, not as a father, not as a lover, and furthermore, you aren't ever going to."

He sat up in turn. "You can't promise that. I'm going to make mistakes somewhere; I can't help it. That's what I do. And physically, I'm getting older. But even in general, there will be times when . . . I just can't _be _enough."

"And you know what the biggest mistake of all would be?" She paused long enough to get him wondering. "Confusing _mistakes_ with relationship success. Thinking that doing something you perceive as wrong is going to doom the whole thing. You have made mistakes, I've made mistakes, we'll both make future mistakes, and a relationship is all about working _though_ them. It's not about worrying that you'll make them. And even at that, there is a scale of mistakes. Worrying about things that honestly would not matter that much and would be perfectly understandable is just giving yourself ulcers for no reason. Guess what, Greg? _I'm_ getting older, too. Why on earth should you blame yourself for a biological process that we're all going through? All at the same rate, too - one day at a time. That's not even a mistake; it's just life. But even the actual mistakes you make aren't irrevocable. You're not going to lose us for them. Take Abby and Rachel, for instance. Rachel was mean to her sister last night. Are they hopelessly doomed now to never be as close as they could have been because Rachel has screwed it up?" He considered, then slowly shook his head. "No, it was just a little sibling moment, and they'll have more and much worse than that, and _none_ of those should define their whole relationship in isolation or should in that moment ruin it. We _love_ each other, Greg. Mistakes and getting older and all. And with that comes the freedom that there is _no_ mistake, no 'failure' that could ever make me think that you aren't worth it. Nothing you could ever do will make me question the fact that I love you."

He looked at her, still almost afraid to believe it. "I was . . . scared."

"I know. But that's part of being human. Being scared does not equal failure and disappointment. It's just being scared. Happens to _everybody_. It's even happened to me, believe it or not."

Slowly, she saw his look thaw, the warmth reaching in. "I'm sorry, Lisa," he said with deliberate emphasis.

They both simultaneously closed the gap, meeting in the middle, both of them warmed from the inside out by the kiss. They finally broke apart. "It's today," he said, reassured personally enough by this point to get down to moving the day's agenda into the primary mental slot.

"I know," she replied, not belittling the road ahead, but her hand tightened firmly on his. He gripped it back, and then his eyes went to the clock on the nightstand. 5:01. "We'd better get moving," he said, his muscles already tensing up just thinking about the hearing.

"Right." She leaned in for another kiss, more lingering reassurance than passion that time, then stood up to head into the day.


	114. Chapter 114

A/N: My Grandma did have "lucky" cereal, although she had a gleam in her eye when she called it that, and I don't think she really believed it herself. I have no idea what was in it. I can't cook. I do know that nobody in the family has ever duplicated it, though a few who can cook have tried, and the recipe was not written down.

(H/C)

The girls woke up early, of course, as restless as everybody else today. House was in the shower just then, so Cuddy went to get them up and dressed. Rachel tried to divert that direction and obviously would have walked straight into their private bathroom had Cuddy not intercepted her. "No, Rachel! You don't walk in on people in the bathroom. He's taking a shower, he'll be out in a minute." Cuddy grabbed Rachel's hand firmly and then did a doubletake as she noticed Belle. The white cat was sitting at the door of the bathroom herself, staring as if by willpower alone, the door would open. "He'll be out in a minute, Belle." One quick flick-lash of the tail was her response.

Still holding Rachel's hand, Cuddy steered her toward the kitchen. Cuddy had already grabbed a quick shower while House had gotten up and made coffee - and had a few words with Jensen; she wasn't sure what, but they were together with coffee at the small table in the kitchen when she had first come in. Jensen was in the main bathroom now, having just finished his own shower. Cuddy had never been so glad to have the psychiatrist around. Already House's tension level was climbing exponentially. She almost wished court would go ahead and start, because at least then, he could follow and analyze how the day was going instead of just worrying about how it would go. At least she had given House a brief respite of total relaxation this morning, as well as hopefully some reassurance.

Rachel promptly tried to bolt back into the rear of the house as Cuddy let go of her hand to put Abby in her high chair. Cuddy chased her down quickly, carried her back, and inserted her firmly into her own chair. "No, Rachel, he'll be here in a minute."

Rachel banged on the tray. "Ch'roes."

"Shhh," Abby said, looking wise.

Cuddy laughed, and so did Jensen from the doorway. Rachel, stuck between annoyance and joining the community joke, took the second choice and laughed herself, and Cuddy got out the box of Cheerios and put a small pile on each tray.

"What can I do to help?" Jensen asked. The psychiatrist looked completely ready for court himself, even with hair still wet. He was the picture of elegant formality in what must be his best suit; Cuddy thought it was the same one he had worn at his wedding.

"Greg should be back in here in a minute. I'll work on breakfast; you just . . . well, whatever's needed." She turned a complete circle, looking at the closed refrigerator and cabinets without starting for any of them. She felt uncharacteristically out of control herself, and she didn't like it. From such a good beginning, events were already snatching the day from her grasp.

"Breathe," Jensen advised her.

"How do you think today will go?" she asked him suddenly, wanting some reassurance herself and afraid to show that once House was in the room.

"I think it will be brutal - and I think he'll come out on top at the end," Jensen replied. "He's far more prepared for today than the defense thinks he is. Patrick has underestimated him all along."

Cuddy took a deep breath. "I know. Thanks."

House's awkward step-thump was heard in the hall. His leg was hurting more than usual already. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and Cuddy studied him. Dressed in his black dress pants, sky blue shirt, and medium blue tie, he looked pretty professional himself. The suit jacket waiting by the door would complete the picture. She smiled. "You look great, Greg."

"Today it actually matters to look like a respectable doctor," he replied. He crossed over to the high chairs and kissed each daughter in turn, careful to pick Rachel first this time. "Good morning, girls."

"Morning!" Rachel replied, dropping a handful of Cheerios and latching onto his arm. Abby already had his other hand.

"Sit down, Greg," Cuddy advised. He didn't need to be standing around on his leg. She didn't ask if he had put the heat patch back on after his shower, but she would check herself before they left that a few were missing from the packet, more than enough to get him through the day.

He complied, giving each girl a squeeze before letting go, and then folding up with a wince into a chair. Jensen poured another cup of coffee and brought it to him.

"What do you want for breakfast, Greg?" Cuddy asked, still stuck in her meal planning.

His stomach did a complete loop-de-loop inside him, and he swallowed. "I don't know if I can eat anything this morning."

"You have to," she urged. "Your body needs the fuel, and besides, you can't finish taking your meds without it."

He stared at the cup of coffee. "I don't . . . " This morning was worse than last night. He actually felt somewhat nauseous at the mere _thought_ of food. But Cuddy had a point on the meds.

"Why don't you go ahead and take the omeprazole?" Jensen suggested. "It might help."

House shrugged and pulled out his pill bottles, scooping out that tablet and taking it with a swig of coffee. He didn't usually take pills with something to drink, but his mouth felt dry just now. He didn't want to choke.

Cuddy finally decided on omelets and started fixing one like he liked it. House stared at the table.

"Remember, you aren't doing this alone," Jensen advised him.

"I don't think I _could_ do this alone," House admitted, feeling too nervous to evade. Cuddy cracked a few eggs, and the smell and sizzle of food filled the room. House's stomach took another roller-coaster dive, and he wished the omeprazole would hurry up down there. He really did feel on the verge of throwing up. Nothing to do at the moment except wait for breakfast, even though he didn't want it once it got here.

"Take the Ativan," Jensen said after a few minutes, watching him closely.

House tightened up in refusal, and his leg yelped. "I _can't_. I can't be drugged out when I get on the stand. I've got to be ready to deal with him." The walls were closing in suddenly.

"It's a very low dose, and it's also a short-acting drug," Jensen replied smoothly. "That dosage won't do anything more than take the edge off, and it will be long gone before you get on the stand. But you need it right now." House's breathing was picking up almost while they watched.

"Greg, take the Ativan," Cuddy urged him. He didn't move, his posture still stubborn, and she went over to fish in his pocket herself, coming up with several bottles but not that one. "Where is it?"

"In the bedroom," he said finally. She disappeared quickly in that direction.

House sighed. "I can't even get to _breakfast_ without almost having a panic attack. What is the rest of today going to be like?"

Jensen scooted his chair closer to House. "Breathe," the psychiatrist said. "It will be better once we get in court."

House arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really. Reality is rarely as bad as imagination." The smell of burning omelet suddenly struck both of them. Jensen sprang up and quickly went to the stove, moving the pan over. House's stomach did a complete flip as he remembered having to eat deliberately burned food, choking down each bite with his throat tightening up in revolt. The tie was tightening, closing in around his neck, and he abruptly clawed at the knot. He couldn't breathe. Jensen turned around from the stove just in time to see this move, and he closed the gap between them in two quick strides, untying the tie himself and pulling it completely off. "Breathe," he urged softly. "You can breathe now." He took a second to switch on the exhaust fan over the stove, then came back and picked up House's hand, both giving him contact and checking his pulse. "It was just an accident. It's okay." House took a deep gulp of air, and the grayness around the edge of the world retreated. "Easy," Jensen repeated. "You're okay."

"Damn it!" Cuddy came back down the hall with the bottle and registered the smell. It had taken her a minute to find the Ativan - House had it not in the nightstand drawer but in the locked medicine cabinet in their private bathroom. Obviously, he had not intended to even take it with him to court. She quickly handed him a pill, having already gotten it out as she hurried down the hall, and then hovered watching him anxiously with one forlorn look toward the ruin of breakfast. He looked much worse than he had just a minute ago. House took the Ativan without protest and closed his eyes.

"Dada?" Rachel's tone was bordering on tears. He opened his eyes again and looked over to see both of his daughters staring at him in open concern. They had been watching this whole scene play out, a horrified audience to his panic attack, and he had forgotten all about them.

"I'm okay," he managed. Neither of them looked convinced.

Cuddy felt suddenly near tears herself. The failure of breakfast, the one thing she _had_ had control over at the moment, seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.

"It's okay," Jensen said to the room at large. "We'll just start over again. Not a big deal."

The phone rang at that moment. House was still fighting the smell, though the fan and the Ativan were helping. Jensen was still watching him closely. Neither of them even looked at the instrument. Cuddy contemplated throwing the phone through a window herself - might be worth another $1000 just to get the satisfaction - but she couldn't set that example for the girls. She picked up the cordless. "Hello?"

"Lisa? Is Greg there?"

It was Blythe. Cuddy looked over at House. "Hello, Blythe," she said, giving him a vote that every inch of her longed to claim for herself. He shook his head desperately, and Jensen was unable to resist a sharp negative shake himself. "He's not available right now, Blythe. He's in the shower," Cuddy lied without a qualm.

"Well, just tell him for me that I'll be thinking of him today, and I'm sure he'll do fine."

"I'll tell him, Blythe."

"And call me once it's over, okay?"

"If you want an update on the case, I'm sure it will be on the news before we even get home, but I'll tell him."

"Okay. Thank you, Lisa. I'll let you go; I know it's a busy morning."

"Yes, it is. Goodbye, Blythe."

"Goodbye, Lisa."

Cuddy stabbed at the end button and set the phone down. "Your mother sends her best regards for the day."

House flinched. "I might have thrown it through the window again."

"I thought of it myself. Probably would have if it weren't for the girls." House grinned and looked back over at his daughters, who still looked concerned and also bewildered. They couldn't follow the events of this morning at all. "Are you . . ." Cuddy hesitated, not wanting to ask it with both Rachel and Abby looking at him already.

"Better," he replied, filling in the gap. He looked at the tie draped across the back of the next chair, and Cuddy followed his glance.

"What happened to . . ."

House shuddered. "It was _choking_ me. I couldn't breathe."

Jensen's eyes met Cuddy's with a minute nod of confirmation. House wasn't speaking figuratively there. He really _hadn't_ been able to breathe.

Great. Just great. He still hadn't had breakfast, still hadn't had his meds, she had ruined the omelets, and now the tie was revolting against him. They seemed to be moving backwards on the path to getting ready for court, not making progress.

Cuddy sighed, and then her shoulders squared defiantly. "Breakfast. Okay, we start over with breakfast. You have to eat something, Greg."

Abby immediately reached over from her high chair next to him and offered him a Cheerio. House took it with a tense smile. "Thank you, Abby." He started to put it on the table, but she was still watching him, waiting. He put it in his mouth and forced it down - and it was obvious to both Cuddy and Jensen that even that small bite was an effort.

"Okay?" Rachel asked. The room was full of subtext that was beyond her, but she wasn't too young to realize that she was missing details.

"We're all okay, Rachel," Cuddy reassured her. "Everything's fine."

"It's just going to be a . . . rough day at work today," House filled in suddenly. "But I'll be home tonight, and it will all be over then." For the moment until the next court appearance, his mind added. Jensen gave him an approving smile.

The front door rattled and opened, and Cuddy quickly went into the living room only to find Marina arriving early. The nanny was carrying a crock pot. "Good morning, Marina," Cuddy said, unable to resist a glance at her watch.

"I brought breakfast," Marina said brightly, moving immediately toward the kitchen.

"I was just fixing breakfast," Cuddy protested. The family usually ate together in the mornings these days; it was a total break in routine for Marina to show up with food.

The nanny plunked her crock pot down on the cabinet and looked at the scorched omelet. She gave a disparaging sniff. "You call _this_ breakfast?"

"I didn't mean to burn it," Cuddy pointed out. "I was just about to start over."

House settled back in his chair, feeling better suddenly. "The battle of the kitchen," he announced for the benefit of Jensen and the girls. "In _this_ corner, we have Lisa Cuddy-House, control freak, and . . ."

Cuddy's glare cut off the commentary, although she was secretly glad he seemed to be feeling a little better, even if it was at her expense. Marina ignored him entirely, a skill she had perfected long since. The nanny dumped the omelet down the garbage disposal, which further helped the smell, then extracted bowls from the cabinet. She spooned the first one full and smacked it down pointedly in front of House.

He stared at the gooey mixture, his amusement vanishing. "_What _is this?" He poked it with the spoon as if testing for reflexes. "It's not oatmeal, but it might have been in a former life."

"Cereal," Marina stated. "Old family recipe. Cannot get this in _any_ store."

"Gee, I wonder why," House muttered.

She steamrollered over his comment. "Special cereal. This is _lucky_ cereal."

House looked up at her. "You have _got _to be kidding."

Marina straightened up, her Spanish dignity on full display. "_Lucky_ cereal. My grandparents had this on their wedding day, and never a cloud between them. My parents had it on their wedding day, and they were together for over 50 years. I had it myself on my wedding day, and one of my brothers had it the day he went for his interview for college. He was the _first_ of the family to ever get admitted to college. One brother did _not_ have it on his wedding day, because he did not believe." Her tone left no doubt as to the trials that had befallen the heretic brother.

Cuddy had to laugh at her husband's incredulous expression. "How can you possibly counter an argument like that, Greg? Okay, Marina, we'll have the lucky cereal."

House shook his head. "What a batch of . . ." He trailed off, abruptly remembering that his daughters were listening.

Marina quickly filled a bowl for Cuddy and a joint one for the girls, and for the first time, she seemed to notice Jensen's presence in the group. With a shrug, she got out another bowl and filled one for him, too, setting it down in front of him, then positioned herself between the high chairs and spooned up the first bite, prepared to feed the girls herself.

Jensen was the first to actually taste it. The stuff did look like gravy that had been sitting out too long, but the taste was unique. He rolled it around his mouth, testing it. "Honey and . . . something. It's a cereal base, but it's got an interesting flavor to it."

"Secret family recipe," Marina agreed. She offered a spoonful to Abby.

Cuddy tasted some herself and nodded. "It's good, Marina. Unusual but good."

"You expect lucky cereal to taste _bad_?" the nanny scoffed.

"Come on, Greg," Cuddy urged. "This day could use some lucky cereal."

House picked up his spoon. "I don't believe this," he muttered.

Marina glared at him. "You eat it and see. It will bring you luck today."

House took a bite as if expecting it to bite him in return. The stuff actually wasn't half bad tasting, although he didn't think anything would have tasted good this morning. Honey, as Jensen had said, and something else behind that. The family settled down to breakfast, Marina feeding the girls, Cuddy and Jensen eating their own cereal while watching him. House managed to choke down two-thirds of the bowl. That much done, he fished out his meds and took the anti-inflammatories. One of the heat patches was on his leg right now, and two more were still packaged in his pocket in case that one ran out of punch before his testimony, but his leg was still hurting. He pushed the bowl away. "I can't eat anymore," he said, a flat statement, and Cuddy nodded.

"Okay, Greg." She hoped he would testify before lunch break, but she doubted the defense attorney would be that considerate with the previous witnesses, either. House stood and started out of the kitchen. Rachel squealed, and he turned back to give his daughters a kiss.

"Got to finish getting ready for the day, kids. It's okay. Marina will be here, just like usual." _Just like usual_. Rachel and Abby alone would have a routine day today, although they still looked worried. House fought down the stab of guilt and turned away, heading out to the living room toward his suit jacket.

The tie. His shoulders drooped suddenly. As if in response to his thoughts, Jensen came into the living room holding the offending article of clothing. "What happened earlier?" the psychiatrist asked, softly enough that the girls in the kitchen couldn't hear, although Cuddy came into the room behind him close enough to hear the question.

House sighed and looked away. "It was the _smell_. Burned food. He made me . . . and it felt like I choked on every bite. Right then, when I remembered that, the tie started to choke me. I really could feel it tightening down." He shook his head. "It's _stupid_. It's just a piece of cloth."

"But one that, by extension, could represent your father," Jensen noted. "Formal wear, anything approaching a uniform. You could consider a tie part of a professional uniform." Cuddy felt a stab of guilt herself as she realized suddenly that this probably _was_ subconsciously part of the reason he disliked ties. "Did he ever actually try to choke you?" Jensen asked.

"No," House replied instantly. "I didn't deserve it. That would have been too easy." That was so obviously a conditioned response, something else drummed into him throughout his childhood, that Cuddy cringed.

"He talked about it, though," Jensen deduced.

House sighed. "Yes, he talked about it. But only about why he'd never do it."

"Is it _really_ necessary to go into this right now?" Cuddy asked pointedly.

"Actually, yes," Jensen replied. "I'm trying to figure out what exactly we're up against to get the best way around it, because he needs to be wearing a tie in court if possible. The tie was just a symbol, not an actual mechanism. That helps us."

House shivered. "I'm not sure I can . . . I've _never_ liked the things, but I never felt one actually choking me before. I really couldn't breathe."

"I know," Jensen assured him. "I immediately got it off you, remember. But I think that was just an unfortunate combination of several factors together at that moment. Let me think a minute."

"What if it did that on the stand?" House asked.

Cuddy's fists tightened at her sides. She was tempted after all this was over and Patrick dealt with to go dig up John House herself. Too bad he would be dead and couldn't feel what she'd like to do to him.

"So it's a symbol of your father but not an actual threat or action." Jensen was thinking so quickly that his expression almost reminded Cuddy of House just now. "Do you have a permanent laundry marker?"

Cuddy nodded and headed for the desk. "She bought one to label clothes and toys," House supplied. "For when the girls go to preschool. Never mind that that's a few years down the road."

Cuddy fished up the black permanent marker and returned, presenting it to Jensen. "What are you going to do?" Her curiosity was up now, as was House's.

"Watch." Jensen sat down on the couch and spread the tie out on the coffee table. The other two crowded in. Jensen made a test mark on the inside of the neck portion, and it showed up fairly well, black on medium blue. It would have been even better on a lighter base, but it was definitely visible. Satisfied, the psychiatrist began to sketch.

Cuddy remained baffled, but House burst out laughing as Jensen carefully drew the logo from the movie Ghostbusters, the ghost in the middle of the circle with slash. Even all in black marker, it was a remarkable likeness. Jensen finished his first no-ghosts insignia and started another on the opposite side of the neck, then drew a third, the largest, on the inside of the bottom flap. "No ghosts allowed," he said firmly, looking up at House. "You'll know those signs are there, even if the judge can't see them. But more to the point, just _think_ of what your father would say. I'm desecrating a formal tie - in _permanent _marker - and he can't do a thing about it. So all day, you'll be wearing something that would be an offense to him."

House grinned. "I can imagine. He'd _hate_ this."

"Good. Keep imagining him hating it." Jensen finished his final anti-ghost insignia and capped the marker with a firm snap. "No ghosts allowed. Period." He stood up and started to approach House himself, then hesitated and handed the tie to Cuddy instead. "You put it on him. Tie it as loosely as you can."

Cuddy carefully placed the tie back around House's neck and tied it. He took a deep breath. "Okay?" Jensen asked.

House nodded. "Okay. I think."

Cuddy studied the overall effect. Jensen had been remarkably careful, and not a sign of the three sketches was visible externally. "So where does the ghost in a circle come from?"

House looked at her incredulously. "You've never seen Ghostbusters? We have to watch that sometime. It has some of the best one-liners. And life isn't complete until you've seen the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man."

"The Stay Puff . . ." Cuddy gave up. "Never mind. We need to get going." She looked at her watch. All of the morning's shenanigans had been eating up their time cushion.

House's expression immediately went serious again as he remembered the task of the day. "Just a minute. I want to say goodbye to the girls." He started for the kitchen, and Cuddy paused next to Jensen as she followed him.

"Thank you," she whispered. She was still stunned at the psychiatrist's imagination and adaptability. Jensen was every bit as good in his field as House.

"You're welcome," he responded, courteous as always. They headed on into the kitchen just in time to see House put Abby back in her high chair.

"Got to go, girls," he said. "I'll see you tonight."

"No!" Rachel protested.

"Hush!" Marina scolded. "Your father has to go today, but he'll be home tonight. Just like always." She promptly destroyed the any-old-day effect by walking over to House herself and kissing him on the cheek. She said something to him in Spanish. He replied in the same language, then reached out to brush his hand through Rachel's hair affectionately.

"See you tonight," he repeated. "Bye, Rachel. Bye, Abby."

"No!" Rachel repeated.

"Bye," Abby responded, but she still looked concerned. House gave them one final touch each, then turned suddenly and limped out of the kitchen without a backward glance. He was already shrugging his way into his suit jacket by the time Jensen and Cuddy caught up with him.

"Let's do it," he said. Cuddy put on her winter coat and held his out to him. Jensen diverted into the guest room and emerged with his own coat a minute later.

Together, the three of them left the house.

(H/C)

At long last, folks, this is it as we get to the climax of this story. Court starts next chapter and will take up a few. Buckle your seatbelts.


	115. Chapter 115

Short update; busy and stressful day today. I'm off for that. Rest assured, while you will get a nutshell look at the whole evidence, we will be going extensively, pretty much line by line, into House's direct and cross examination. By the way, the first review will get to be #1600. Thanks so much, readers!

(H/C)

Judging just from the available parking, court was already getting crowded. Cuddy was driving, and she got the last handicapped spot, fortunately. She wouldn't have wanted to make a point of his disability by letting House out in front and going off to park, even with Jensen along to get out and stay with him.

A steady stream of people was heading for the building, and there were also on-site news trucks outside. House sighed and looked at his watch. It was 7:30.

Wilson, waiting on the steps by prearrangement, greeted them. The oncologist studied House in open admiration. "Wow. Real suit pants _plus_ a tie." House flinched slightly, and Wilson was surprised to get a double-barreled glare from the supporting cast. Cuddy he would have expected, with all her protective instincts aroused against any perceived slight to her husband at the moment. Jensen surprised him.

"Yeah, right. Let's get in while we can still find seats." House hesitated at the foot of the stone stairs outside the building, then slowly started his climb. Cuddy was glued to his side, although she didn't take his arm. Jensen dropped back a few steps and pulled Wilson back with him.

"Do _not_ mention the tie today. At all," the psychiatrist whispered.

"I was just making a joke to ease the tension," Wilson protested.

"Wrong joke. Leave that subject totally alone."

Wilson was starting to get more concerned now. "Did something else happen this morning already? Is he okay?"

"I think he is," Jensen replied, ignoring the first half of the question. "But making a point of the tie and how unusual it is for him to wear one could undo part of that. So leave it."

Wilson studied House, slowly climbing ahead of them. "Okay," he said, his curiosity piqued now along with his concern.

House reached the top finally, and Cuddy opened the doors. Inside the building, the stream of people continued flowing along the halls, then abruptly hit a traffic jam, progress coming to a halt. The spectators were stacking up, restlessly filling the hall. A deeply official voice carried down the line from ahead of them. "No more. The judge is closing the courtroom until all the principals get here; there are too many people trying to get in. We're already near capacity."

A rumble of discontent swept along the crowd like a wave. "I'm with the media!" one voice called. "I have a _right_ to be in there."

"You think that makes you worth more than the public?" someone replied.

"Come on," House said. He plunged into the crowd, pushing and elbowing and caning his way into the mass of people, and Cuddy, Jensen, and Wilson quickly followed in his wake.

"Wait a minute; who the hell do you think . . . Dr. House!" The mood of the line totally shifted as House was recognized. People turned all along the way, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea, giving him an open road to the courtroom doors. A cheer went up. Ms. "I'm with the Media" took a picture. House squared his shoulders and limped on ahead past the audience to the court official guarding the closed doors.

The man eyed his entourage. "They're with me," House said confidently, and reached for the door. Cuddy, Wilson, and Jensen walked through on his heels, and then they were all in the courtroom.

The courtroom was crowded, as the man had said. The first few rows were marked off for the witnesses, but other than that, the room was obviously almost at capacity. Martin was already at his table at the front, looking through papers. The defense table was empty. Patrick, of course, would be one of the last ones brought in, escorted from the jail just in time for the hearing. House's eyes honed in on the obviously designated area in the back for media and cameras. It was also packed to capacity, reporters with their credentials cards nearly standing on top of each other. All three networks were represented, as well as CNN and local Princeton stations. Every one of them had spotted him immediately.

Jensen touched House's arm. "They're on your side," he reminded him.

"Yeah. Right." House limped toward the reserved rows, finally sitting down. He ran one hand down his leg, which hadn't liked those ceremonious front stairs much, and he felt the heat patch beneath his fingers. Cuddy sat down next to him, and Wilson hesitated, then let Jensen go first, sitting on House's other side, and sat down himself next to the psychiatrist.

Lucas Douglas was already here on the first row of witnesses, and he smiled at them, but even his habitual casual, nonchalant air was strained. Andrews was here too, and he fidgeted and pointedly didn't look at House or, even worse, Cuddy. House turned around again, looking back toward the media and the spectators, and straightened up in surprise. Cuddy turned to follow his gaze and stiffened herself as she saw Foreman. The neurologist met her gaze evenly, his features absolutely impassive. Kutner was also present, on the row behind him, and he gave House a wide, encouraging smile.

Martin had heard the rustle of the crowd and turned around, and he smiled himself. Getting up from his table, he hurried back to the second row. "Hello, Dr. House. Dr. Cuddy-House." He noted Wilson and Jensen and immediately took an internal vote - correctly - on which of them was the psychiatrist, but he didn't comment.

House held out the PPTH envelope. "There's one x-ray there, the best one where the toes show up. The screenshots from the MRI are a little clearer. I think even somebody nonmedical could see it."

"Good. Thank you." Martin took the envelope. "I don't think I'll bring up that episode on direct. Let's just lay the trap for them, and if they challenge the whole story on cross, I'll produce the films then. Very effective to pull the rug out from under somebody when they're in the process of trying to make a point. And if they don't challenge your past, that's at least one point that will stay off the record."

"Nice to have at least one," House grumbled. He sighed and looked back for another scan of a crowd. Just then, a man entered who reminded House irresistibly of a ferret. Definitely something in the weasel family, something that liked to slink around corners. He had a polished suit, professional briefcase, and beady eyes. Clearly the defense attorney. He noted House and studied him intently as he walked up the aisle, and House forced himself not to look away from the openly dubious gaze. The defense attorney passed Martin without any sort of acknowledgment or greeting.

"Looks like J R Ewing," Wilson commented softly, and that effort at a joke was successful. House relaxed a bit and grinned, and even Cuddy smiled.

"Oh, so you've seen Dallas but not Ghostbusters?" House asked her.

"Ghostbusters?" Wilson said. Jensen elbowed him in the ribs.

Martin had looked curious himself, but he immediately dropped the Ghostbusters reference, noting Jensen's action. "He _does_ look like J R Ewing, and the similarity is more than skin deep. Let's hope the court agrees."

Ann Bellinger entered the courtroom at that moment. She looked fragile, a china plate with a visible network of cracks. She walked down the aisle as if in a daze and moved past them to take the spot next to Wilson. Martin immediately turned his attention to the point of the day he was most worried about. "Hello, Mrs. Bellinger." He dropped his voice even lower. "You don't have to do this. It's not too late to change your mind."

"I do have to do this," she insisted. Jensen studied her and hoped that this one was involved in therapy of her own. She looked at the absolute limit. No one had come today with her.

"Okay," Martin yielded. He looked at his watch. "We should be getting started soon."

Just then, the side door opened, and Patrick Chandler entered the courtroom, escorted by a guard. House hadn't actually seen the man since the day of Christopher's death, and he blinked at the transformation. Chandler was dressed in a suit, complete with his own tie, and looked as professional as Wilson. His eyes gave a wondering survey of the judge's bench, but he didn't look around the crowd. His expression was polite bewilderment, inability to comprehend why he was here, such a contrast to his previous attitude of the bully whose time was being wasted that House had to look twice to double check that it was him. "Wow. Playing it to the hilt," House said softly.

Martin eyed Patrick and nodded. "Better get back in my place. They never bring in the defendants who are in custody until the judge is ready." He moved back to his table at the front.

House was still studying Patrick. He looked so ordinary, so harmless right now. Obviously, he was indeed going for multiple personality disorder, an innocent Dr. Jekyll unknowingly trapped by his hidden Mr. Hyde. House felt the anger deep inside him kicking back into flames as he remembered Christopher. You aren't going to get away with it, he vowed silently.

The side door opened again, and the bailiff entered. "All rise!" The crowd came to its collective feet, House with a wince.

The judge entered. He looked Asian, and House studied the facial features and quickly classified him as Korean. He also looked firmly in control, a reassuring thought for today.

"Be seated." The crowd resumed its seats.

The judge launched into his own opening speech, his eyes sweeping the entire courtroom, looking for anybody who was a possible problem. In spite of his obvious heritage, his English was perfect and unaccented. "Good morning. Several ground rules before we start. First, anybody with a cell phone, take it out of your pocket right now and turn it off. Any person whose cell phone rings during the hearing will be removed from the courtroom. Anyone who is seen using their cell phone to text or take pictures will be removed from the courtroom. They remain turned off and put away. Likewise, the media is expected to remain in the background at all times. Anyone disrupting this hearing will be removed immediately, no second chances. Due to overwhelming public interest, I have agreed to open up a second room with closed-circuit broadcast, but there are bailiffs in that one, too, and that crowd is also expected to watch respectfully. This is court, not a ball game. Anyone in either room calling out audible comments of any sort toward either the defense or the prosecution will be removed. Is that all understood?"

The crowd nodded in unison, afraid to respond verbally. His message had clearly gone home, at least for the moment. Nobody wanted to risk getting tossed out today.

The judge turned to the defense. "As you know, Mr. Bartle, as this is an evidentiary hearing, you are not required to present your own case. The burden is solely on the prosecution. Will you be calling any witnesses yourself?"

The defense attorney rose. "Just one, your honor. A psychiatrist to testify to the mental state of my client, and I also will most likely be making an application for moving him at that point."

"I will hear it at that point, then," the judge replied. He turned back to the prosecution. "Ready, Mr. Martin?"

"Ready, your honor."

"Court is now in session regarding the people versus Patrick Chandler and whether this matter is sufficient to go to full trial. Call your first witness."


	116. Chapter 116

Small bites, folks. Sorry, but that's how it goes. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

As he had told House, Martin started out with the physical evidence. First of all came the documentation for the original arrest warrant from Kentucky, then statements from the team who had executed the subsequent search warrant at Ann Bellinger's house after she, House, and Cuddy had gone to the police that Monday. Had it only been a week ago? The officer who had caught Reginald Travis breaking in to steal the laptop gave his report. The evidence from the shed and from the rope that had once held Christopher was introduced. The defense attorney let most of this pass without a fight, but when the computer expert who had spent hours decoding the laptop took the stand, Bartle came to attention. House, looking at his back, could tell even during direct that this was the first witness who would be in for a taste of the defense's fact twisting today.

Martin was thorough but efficient, building the damning picture for the court of all that was on that laptop. The pictures were each introduced into evidence, and the judge looked at the copies, as did the defense. No one else in the courtroom got to see them now, although the jury at the ultimate trial would have to look. Bartle, judging from the back of his shoulders, studied them with intense analysis. The judge took a thorough look at each, then looked away with an expression of infinite sadness, sadness at what Christopher had undergone and sadness that these were not the first set of similar photos he had seen. These were extreme, but other such evidence had been produced in this same courtroom before and would be again. The log was introduced, copies of that handed out to judge and defense, and a few of the entries pertaining to Christopher read aloud.

Through all of it, Patrick Chandler maintained his air of absolute bewilderment.

Finally, Martin turned over the witness for cross, and for the first time, the spectators got an idea of Bartle's tactics.

"Mr. Simmons, you stated that these particular files on the laptop were safeguarded."

"Yes, they were."

"How long did it take you to break into them?"

"Several hours. It was Tuesday before I really was sure I had all of it."

"So almost a full day working on it. And you are a technological expert who does this all the time. Do you think that your computer knowledge exceeds that of the general public?"

"Yes." Simmons was unable to resist a flicker of pride in his skills there, but he was also wary. He knew Bartle was up to something, and he wasn't going to make it easy for him.

"Would you say that these files were _extensively _passworded and secured?"

Simmons hesitated. "Tightly but not expertly. I've seen much better jobs of it. Whoever did this one was an amateur with a lot of knowledge, but he wasn't as good as he thought he was."

"So now you claim to be an expert witness to someone else's thoughts? My, you _are_ good in that case."

"I'm just saying that I have worked with professionally encrypted computers, and this was not one. That _is_ my expert opinion."

"But for a non professional job, would you say this was a thorough one?"

"For an amateur, yes." House looked over at Patrick, knowing that being called an amateur would rankle. He could only see Patrick's back, but the man hadn't tightened up. Damn it, they needed to get him rattled, to break this innocent facade.

Bartle was closing in on his main point just as stubbornly as Simmons was resisting it. "In your _expert_ opinion, Mr. Simmons, do you think it would be possible for someone else to use this computer and not realize that these files were on it?"

"Possible, yes. Assuming that they were an uneducated amateur on technology." Patrick still didn't react.

"So a person could be innocently using this laptop for other things and have no idea of what someone else had put on the hard drive?"

"It's possible, yes. Of course, the longer and more extensively that person was using it, the more amateur they would have to be not to wonder about _something._"

"My client was a day trader in stocks. Did you find his day trading software on this laptop?"

"Yes."

"Was that secured with a password?"

"Yes."

"And was that password different than the security measures on these other files, the picture and the log."

"Yes, it was."

"Was it easier to break into the stock account than those other files?"

"Yes."

"How long did it take you to break into the stocks?"

"Under an hour."

"How long _precisely_, Mr. Simmons?"

"About 15 minutes."

"So it would almost seem that the person with the stock account, dealing with money and his source of livelihood, where he might be expected to be extremely careful and security conscious, was nowhere near as adept at securing files as the person who put on the pictures and the log."

"Or was deliberately making this one easier to maintain the image of an innocent business computer and make himself seem less smart at passwords than he actually was just in case this computer ever got into the hands of the authorities. Stocks aren't illegal, after all. Child abuse is."

Bartle flinched slightly there as that point backfired. House looked again at Patrick. Nothing. Cuddy was watching House. He was alert and focused now, almost like he was in a differential, watching this contest and analyzing it, which at least at this moment had distracted him from his own nerves. Good. Jensen, on House's other side, met her eyes and nodded minutely. Wilson, beyond Jensen, had actually gotten somewhat distracted himself by Ann Bellinger, who had felt each picture, each bit of evidence as a stab through the heart and had flinched at every one. She had shrunk even more into herself and was obviously trying not to cry. Wilson put a hand on her arm, giving her some contact at least, even if she didn't know him from Adam, and she did not pull away.

Bartle circled back to his initial point. "But you have testified that it _would_ be possible for a person to use this computer and not realize the pictures and log were on it if those had been placed by someone else?"

"Possible, yes."

"Now about these pictures. One of them shows a mosquito in the act of biting Christopher. Tell me, Mr. Simmons, in your _expert _opinion, is this the only mosquito in the world?"

"No."

"So other mosquitoes through the course of history have bitten people outside of the event in this picture?"

"Yes."

"Is it possible that other mosquitoes even bit Christopher in different circumstances?"

"It's _possible_, yes. But the date for this known bite matches up with the incubation period on West Nile, and the shed was a mosquito breeding ground."

"But can you _swear_ that no other mosquito bit Christopher elsewhere on that day?"

"No," Simmons admitted.

Bartle sat down. "No further questions."

House watched Simmons leaving the stand. A good, unflappable witness, as Martin had predicted. Still, Simmons did this for a living and was used to testifying. But Bartle was a wily one, trying to twist testimony, and even with Simmons, he had a sarcastic emphasis on specific words. House had no doubt he was quite capable of subtle verbal warfare, hiding a whole conversation of subtext beneath his surface questions. House looked at Patrick again. The persona was perfect, uncracked. Damn the man.

Martin got to his feet. "I call Lucas Douglas."


	117. Chapter 117

A/N: Sorry for the delay. This week has truly sucked so far, and all my spare time and attention plus more the last two days has been putting out other fires. In fact, I'm waiting for a call back from somebody right now, as we hit the third day of unresolved crisis, but there's nothing I personally can do right now while waiting. Writing is better than chewing your fingernails off.

Reminder: Since Pranks went AU halfway through the Greater Good, I get to use Lucas as he originally was presented at the beginning of S5, not as the jerk he became.

(H/C)

Lucas told his story steadily, with Martin skillfully drawing out the points he wanted to emphasize. Lucas, of course, had testified before, though never in a case like this. But he knew the drill, and he knew the attitude that would go over best with the judge.

"When Dr. House first hired you, what were his instructions?"

"He wanted proof of child abuse on Chandler. He said evidence of other crimes would be okay if I couldn't get that one, but he was definite that Chandler was an abuser and that there would be evidence somewhere."

"Did he mention any personal vendetta against Chandler?"

"No. I pushed him a little on that and wondered why he'd picked this man to hire me to go after, but he told me that whatever Chandler had done to him personally didn't matter."

Martin held out a hand, stopping the witness for a moment. "Let's get this clear. He said it did not matter?"

"Yes. He wanted evidence to convince the mother that Chandler had been an abuser."

"Did he ever suggest that you manufacture or exaggerate evidence in any way?"

"No." Lucas couldn't have been more definite with that answer. "He seemed absolutely certain that true evidence of abuse existed if I started digging."

"You did discover the case filed by Ann Bellinger in the course of your investigations, didn't you?" Martin asked.

"Yes, fairly quickly. I realized then that was the catalyst for House hiring me, but House still didn't want to discuss the case in my reports. He was totally focused on proving abuse and on the children."

"How long have you known Dr. House?"

"About two and a half years."

"Closely?"

Lucas hesitated. "More than merely socially. We're hardly best friends, but I would consider myself a friend of his and of his wife's. He has also used me several times before tracking down medically-relevant background details on a patient he had."

"Did you know about his background prior to reading that case file?"

Lucas looked straight at House, his usual nonchalant manner totally serious today, but there wasn't a trace of pity in the eyes. "I had no idea." House flinched, and Cuddy squeezed his hand.

Martin pushed on, laying a bit of groundwork in advance of one of the defense's arguments. "In those two and a half years, have you ever seen Dr. House be anything other than absolutely efficient and focused at his job?"

Lucas actually gave a short laugh. "He is notoriously focused at his job. Completely wrapped up in each case."

"Never giving the impression of being distracted by other things or his own past?"

"Not at all. It's almost impossible to distract him from a patient. Anybody at the hospital would agree with that."

Satisfied, Martin left that point. "Now, tell me about the women that you encountered as you tracked Chandler's past."

Off Lucas went into that portion of the story. Martin let him tell it uninterrupted for the most part, just drawing out a detail here and there. Finally, he finished his direct examination.

Bartle popped up like a jack-in-the-box, and House knew he was going to go after Lucas even before the defense attorney asked his first question.

"Mr. Douglas." Lucas' name in Bartle's tones sounded like the name of a specimen of bug. "Did any of these women have any suspicions of my client?"

"No," Lucas admitted.

"Yet they all lived with him? Spent extended time with him?"

"Not that much time," Lucas responded, getting in a nice shot at Patrick. "He was a pretty fast worker."

There was a slight ripple in Bartle's oily tones, but he continued almost immediately. "Still, they had first-hand observation of him, which is more than you did. They no doubt knew him better than you."

"I would disagree with that. He was obviously a first-class manipulator, and every one of them was at a stressful point of life when he picked them up. They were hardly objective just then."

"Ah yes, the stressful life circumstances. Did these women describe Mr. Chandler as a helpful and concerned living partner?"

Lucas shuddered. "That's one interpretation of it, I guess."

"I'm not asking for your guess, Mr. Douglas. _In their words_, as they first spoke to you about him, did they describe him as concerned and attentive?"

"Yes," Lucas admitted.

"Doesn't it seem odd that _multiple_ people with much more at stake than you would have _all_ been fooled if he were simply a monster preying on children?"

"Ted Bundy was very well liked," Lucas countered. "Lots of notorious people have completely fooled those around them, neighbors, even their own families. Even Hitler was one of the most charismatic and inspiring public speakers in history."

That wasn't what Bartle wanted, and he quickly backtracked. "But you admit that all of these women had spent more time around Chandler than you yourself?"

Only one possible answer to that. "Yes."

Bartle switched tactics. "You said you wouldn't describe yourself as a close friend of Dr. House. How much have you really observed him?"

"More than just socially, as I said. Between odd jobs he needed me for and just other things, we'd see each other probably about an average of once a month."

"You don't work at the hospital yourself, though."

"No."

"So any of your observations on what he is like at work would be secondhand."

Lucas shook his head. "I don't work there, but I have _been_ to the hospital many times, and I've encountered him on a case many times. When he would have me doing a job for him, I'd often make reports at PPTH, because like I said, when he was on a case, he was utterly focused. He'll spend days at a time chasing some diagnosis. I also, during my visits to the hospital, heard other employees discussing him, reacting to him while he was deep in a case. I've heard many people comment on his absolute focus."

Bartle quit for the moment. "No further questions."

Lucas glanced at Martin, who shook his head, and the PI got up and returned to his seat. Andrews was called next. He was far more nervous than Lucas, and his speech patterns on the stand were more jerky. Martin worked through it patiently. He had to get the story of Chandler's behind-the-scenes tactics against House into the record.

"How long have you worked with Dr. House?"

"About 5 years."

"So you have seen him many times in the course of a case?" Andrews nodded. "You have to respond verbally for the record."

"Yes."

"Describe him at work."

"Obsessed. Annoying."

Martin cringed slightly at that last word, but he went on smoothly. "In spite of your personal opinions, did you respect him as a doctor?"

"Yes," Andrews admitted, hating having to do so. His eyes shifted again; he was constantly looking back and forth between House and Chandler.

"When did Patrick Chandler first contact you after the death of Christopher Bellinger?"

"Almost two weeks later."

"And at that time, he expressed his intentions of blackmailing you, didn't he?"

"Yes." Andrews swallowed nervously and looked back at Patrick. "He had proof that I had an affair, and he threatened to go to my wife."

"What was the price of his silence?"

"At first, just handing out the papers. But it kept adding. More and more, every time I talked to him. He wasn't living up to his side of the deal." Andrews actually sounded put out there, and House grinned momentarily, imagining a complaint filed with the Better Business Bureau against a blackmailer for not fulfilling a contract.

"So Chandler asked you to distribute the papers. You do realize that this was violating HIPAA?"

"Yes."

"In fact, you are currently charged under that act?"

"Yes," Andrews admitted.

"What did Chandler ask you to do then?"

"He wanted reports, how House reacted, how the hospital reacted."

"What was his response to the suicide of Dr. Hadley?"

"He barely mentioned it at all. Called her 'collateral damage.'" House couldn't resist turning there to look back at Foreman. The younger doctor looked just then like he definitely had anger management problems. His smoldering, dark eyes went from Andrews to Patrick as if he were debating which of them he'd rather take out first.

Andrews went on. "But then he was telling me how to use it."

Martin jumped on that with both feet. "This was right after he had been told about Dr. Hadley's death?"

"Yes. In the same conversation."

"So Chandler was almost immediately working out how to turn an unexpected event to his advantage."

"Yes."

"How did he tell you to use it?"

"He said to keep bringing her up to House, keep harping on it. He said specifically to use the words 'I'm sorry.'" House flinched, and Cuddy picked up his hand and kissed the fingers softly, discreetly, but with full meaning.

"What else did Chandler tell you to do?"

"He said to keep stirring it up on the hospital grapevine. He wanted to know what people were thinking about House's past."

"And what were people thinking?"

"Most of them didn't even believe it. They thought the lawyer was just pulling a fast one." House relaxed a bit again and looked over at Bartle, another cut from the same cloth as Travis.

"What was Chandler's reaction to these reports?"

"He got mad. He couldn't believe that House was just working as usual and that nobody's opinion of him had changed. That's when he told me to meet him, and he gave me some carpet glue."

"Did he explain the significance of carpet glue?"

"No. Just told me to dump it in the office on the carpet. Later on, when he called for a report after, he didn't believe me when I said nothing had happened. House just threw a fit wanting new carpet. Chandler sounded like he expected him to fall apart on the spot or something." Andrews shook his head, still baffled at this expectation. "Then he told me I must have done it wrong. He said if you want something done right, do it yourself."

"Did you have any idea what else he was planning?"

"No."

"And had you had any previous idea yourself before reading those court papers of Dr. House's background?"

"No, I didn't. I didn't know Hadley was sick, either."

"What is your impression of Chandler, over all your interactions and conversations with him?"

Andrews considered. "Conniving. On a power trip. He couldn't believe he was wrong."

"But he was wrong, wasn't he?"

"About House, yes. He thought House would just give up or fall apart or something."

"Did you ever have a conversation with Chandler where he seemed different?"

"No."

"What about your observations of him with Christopher, before Dr. House took over the case. Did he seem concerned toward the boy?"

"He seemed distracted, like he had somewhere else to be. Of course, we didn't know Christopher was really sick then."

"Dr. House saw it, though."

"Yes," Andrews half-snapped. He was still annoyed at how House came up with these things.

"In your observations, did Dr. House often see things that other people missed?"

"Yes, he did. Damned annoying, too."

Martin returned to his chair. "Your witness," he said to Bartle.

Bartle took a different tactic with Andrews, smooth, not as sharp on the attack. "I only have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Andrews. All the times you gave reports to my client, who called whom?"

"He called me." Andrews was as tense as a mouse waiting to be pounced on by a cat.

"You never called him?"

"No. Actually, he told me not to. Emphasized it; don't _ever_ call him or talk to him if I saw him unless he did it first." Martin cringed. He had _told_ Andrews not to mention that on the stand.

"Did he give a reason for not wanting you to call?" Bartle asked.

"He said he might be busy or doing something else."

"You struck a deal on your own case for your testimony here today, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"So your sentence is being decreased based on if you are a good witness against Chandler."

Martin hit his feet there. "Objection. The deal is already made, is not contingent on how good a witness he is, and I certainly did not ask him to inflate his testimony."

"Sustained," the judge replied. "Mr. Bartle, you will not try to insert insinuations like that into the record unless you have proof of misconduct by opposing counsel."

Bartle backed off. "I'm sorry, your honor." he replied, but even there, he emphasized the two words subtly, even with his back to House. House tightened up slightly, and Cuddy kissed his fingers again.

"No further questions," Bartle concluded, sitting back down.

Martin was still on his feet. "I have one followup point. What is the agreed sentence for the charges against you?"

Andrews shrank into his chair. "Five years in prison, a fine of $750,000 to the state, and a civil fine of $750,000 each paid to Dr. House and to the relatives of Dr. Hadley." House sat up straight, absolutely stunned. This was the first he had heard of that.

"Hardly getting off lightly. Thank you, Mr. Andrews. That is all."

Andrews left the stand, still nervous. Martin took a deep breath and faced his own most dreaded moment of the day. "I call Ann Bellinger."


	118. Chapter 118

Thanks for the reviews!

(H/C)

Ann cringed, shrinking in the chair. Wilson gave her arm a supportive squeeze. She didn't look at him, but in the next second, she squared her shoulders and stood up. She turned slightly, angling her body away from Chandler as she walked by the defense table, but as soon as she was on the stand, her eyes went straight to him with a look of absolute horror and accusation. Chandler as always thus far in the hearing didn't waver from his air of polite, innocent bafflement. House gritted his teeth. Damn it, they needed to get the man rattled. He was too good at putting on a front, just as he was too good at unerringly sniffing out women who were on the naive and gullible side.

Cuddy, sitting beside him and sill holding his hand, was caught up in a similar thought. She still harbored resentment against Blythe - how could _anybody_ be that clueless? - but looking at Ann, forced to accept that she truly had had no idea of the monster she gave access to her son, albeit for a shorter time, Cuddy realized again that there really were people that blind in judgment of others, that malleable in expert hands, even with their own children at stake. Looking at Ann watching Patrick, Cuddy could find no anger against the woman, only an infinite sadness and recognition of the hell Ann had been sentenced to for the rest of her life without even benefit of a trial.

Was Blythe's remorse this great? The therapy notes from her psychiatrist were clear that her guilt was overwhelming at times, and she had frequently broken down in sessions. Cuddy abruptly remembered her visit to Blythe's house in Lexington after the accident, discovering that Blythe had obviously moved herself out of the master bedroom she had shared with her husband, unable to stand remaining in the bed they had shared during her ignorance.

Knowing as Cuddy did the far deeper impact and lifelong scars on House, she still couldn't forgive Blythe. She would _never_ forgive Blythe. But over the course of this case, she was reluctantly beginning to find some understanding of her.

Martin started direct examination very gently, handling Ann with kid's gloves, and his own compassion was evident in his voice. He had seen the entire spectrum of humanity in his career, and he had realized long since that many people are simply weaker in character than others. He led Ann as briefly as possible through her relationship with Patrick, emphasizing that Patrick had been the instigator and the driving force, had presented himself as a sympathetic ear, and had always been especially interested in babysitting. Ann was flinching at each answer. He hated doing this to her, but if she insisted on taking the stand, the story had to be brought out.

There was one especially critical point that he needed to get in. "Did Christopher often play near the backyard shed?"

"No," she replied. Her eyes went back to Patrick. "He didn't like it. He avoided it. He told me once . . . a monster was in there." She buried her face in her hands, and Martin gave her a few minutes. House watched Ann and hoped she could find the strength somewhere to get through cross.

"I apologize for bringing this up again," Martin said sincerely after Ann had looked back up at him. "But can you tell me if this was a new attitude on Christopher's part? Had he always disliked the shed?"

She shuddered. "No. It just . . . just started late this summer."

Martin discarded the follow-up question emphasizing that this was when Patrick had entered their lives. Everybody in the courtroom, including the judge, had taken that point already; making Ann state it would only be cruel.

"Did Christopher often complain whenever he would hurt himself? Just the routine bangs that any child gets in play, I mean."

"No," she responded. "He didn't like saying he was hurt or feeling bad. Even in the hospital, Dr. House had to work at it to get him to say anything."

"And was that a recent attitude?"

She hesitated, torn between guilt and memory. "He'd always been quiet, but it was . . . stronger the last few months."

"When Christopher was in the hospital, what was your opinion of Dr. House as you watched him at work?"

"He was wonderful. He was so gentle with Christopher. He could get him to talk better than I could, even. So focused on the case. He stayed up all night there that night. He never went home." She looked over at Patrick again. "I wasn't that nice to him, though. After the CPS call, Patrick convinced me that Dr. House suspected _me_ of abuse. I was mad at him, and I let him know it." She looked directly at House suddenly. "I am so sorry. For everything."

House didn't even flinch that time at the words, totally caught up in her raw emotion.

Martin pushed on slightly. "But you left him on the case."

"He was the best doctor. _Everybody _said that. Dr. Cuddy. All the nurses. The people we'd hear talking in the hospital. And Christopher really was sick." She fought back tears again as the impact of how sick he really had been hit anew.

"But Dr. House knew that you were angry at him?"

"Yes. I made sure to let him know that, every time he was in the room."

"And _even then_, did he seem to slack off on the case at all? Did he respond to your anger and spent time reacting to that?"

"No. He just kept working. He was totally focused on Christopher."

"Did Dr. House ever seem distracted to you while he was working, thinking about anything except his patient?"

"No."

Martin smiled at her. "Thank you. And again, you have my most sincere condolences on Christopher. The evidence from Mr. Douglas shows a pattern for this man; many other women have made the same mistake you did." He turned to the defense table with a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Your witness."

Bartle came to his feet quickly, with an _eagerness_, even. House felt a grim fury extending from Patrick to cover the shyster who was deliberately trying to manipulate things himself. Bartle was working under his client's directions, of course, but nobody got that good at subtle evidence twisting without plenty of previous practice.

His opening salvo wasn't a question. "You are - _were_ - Christopher's mother."

"Yes," Ann said softly, flinching at the correction of the verb tense.

"As his mother, you are the one who had the primary responsibility to protect him, to nurture him. . . "

Martin hit his feet. "Objection. Counsel is merely browbeating the witness. Those aren't even questions."

"Sustained," the judge said sharply. "Mr. Bartle, if you have relevant questions to ask this witness, do so. If you only want to make a speech to the jury, you'll have to wait for the full trial when there is a jury. I will not tolerate it here."

Bartle retreated a token half step. "I'm sorry, your honor." Again, he hit the words ever so subtly, and House definitely got that one, even with the dagger tossed backwards instead of face to face. He flinched, and Cuddy kissed his fingers again. He looked away from Bartle toward her, steadying himself. Jensen fought down his own stab of anger. Damn it, the man was good.

Bartle was continuing smoothly. "In all the time you were involved with my client, did you ever have any suspicions of him?" Ann hesitated. "Answer the question. I'm not talking about what people have told you or what you've found out since. _At that time_, did you ever have any suspicions of him?"

"No," she said finally, but it was so softly that House didn't think the answer reached much beyond the two rows of witness seats.

"In fact, he seemed like a very concerned and loving partner, didn't he?"

"He . . . but he wasn't," she protested, her voice quivering.

"You lived with him, shared a life with him, shared your _son_ with him. In everything you saw _at that time_, did he ever act inappropriately or seem other than caring?"

"No," she admitted.

"Even at the hospital, he stayed there that whole night with you, too. He was right there by your side, all the way, wasn't he?" She nodded. "Answer the question verbally," Bartle insisted.

The judge intervened. "Let the record show that the witness nodded there. Mr. Bartle, make your points but don't keep pounding them into the ground once the witness has answered."

Bartle changed directions. "You said you were very impressed with Dr. House's diligence and focus on Christopher's case."

"Yes," she replied, a little stronger there, glad to get away from the topic of Patrick and her blindness for a moment. Or so she thought.

"Yet three weeks later, you filed a lawsuit - _you _did, not my client - stating that he had been distracted and negligent."

"I didn't really . . . it was Patrick who convinced me of that . . . but I . . ."

"You must have believed it at that time, though. You signed a _court document_ stating that. If those were not your perceptions of Dr. House, you misused the court system by filing a frivolous lawsuit. _Did you believe what you were signing then?"_

"Then, but it was Patrick . . ."

Bartle cut her off. "Yet now you say he impressed you all along?"

"I . . ." Ann was floundering.

"In fact, your memories now are colored by what you have discovered since, aren't they?"

She shook her head. "He was there. All night. He never stopped working that case."

"And you then filed a lawsuit stating that he was negligent and contributed to your son's death. Do you believe that or not?"

"No," she insisted.

"But _did_ you believe it at that time?"

"Yes, but it was Patrick . . ."

"If you filed a lawsuit in your name that was actually brought by someone else, that is also misusing the court system."

"Objection," Martin stated. "The point has already been made; counsel is simply browbeating the witness again."

"Sustained. Whatever your next question is, Mr. Bartle, it had better be on a different subject than the filing of that lawsuit."

"I'm sorry, your honor. I got carried away." House shifted, and Cuddy kissed his fingers again.

Bartle turned back to Ann. "What was your first reaction when Dr. House and his wife came to your house with evidence against my client?"

"I couldn't believe it," Ann replied. Martin cringed.

Bartle was on that immediately, like a cat on a mouse. "You couldn't believe it. Because what they were alleging went against all your own first-hand observations of my client, didn't it?"

"I . . . but they had proof."

"But from what you had seen, living with him, interacting with him, he was not like that, was he? You had _no _suspicions until they came to your door."

Ann had started to cry softly. "No. I missed all of it."

"Exactly. _Living with him_, with extended observation, you missed all of it. Did you _ever_ observe for yourself any abuse toward Christopher?"

"No," she admitted. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

"No further questions," Bartle stated, and House saw his satisfied smirk as he turned to retreat to the defense table.

"Mr. Martin?" the judge asked. Martin shook his head. The judge looked at Ann, still weeping almost silently, oddly privately in her own little world on the stand. The judge looked at his watch. "I think we'll take a break here. It's not far from lunch time anyway. How many more witnesses do you have, Mr. Martin?"

"Only one," the prosecutor replied, and every head in the courtroom except his, Ann's, and Chandler's turned to House. House felt his pulse starting to pick up again as all his focus of the morning on the witnesses fell away, revealing the central fact that he was up next. Ann's testimony had played right into the defense's hands. It was up to him.

The judge tapped his gavel. "Court is adjourned until 1:00 p.m." He leaned over and said something very softly to Ann Bellinger, obviously meant for her ears alone. She straightened up a little and looked at him.

Slowly, the crowd stood. Jensen was watching Ann with concern as the row started to file out. Wilson gripped the psychiatrist's sleeve, holding him back, and spoke softly. "Maybe I ought to take her to lunch or something. She needs _somebody_, and you two can handle things."

Jensen shook his head sharply. "No. She needs somebody, but we need you." He knew that lunch would be even worse than breakfast had been. The judge was trying to be considerate, but there couldn't have been a worse spot for a recess than this one as far as House was concerned. Taking Ann along with them would be an even bigger mistake; putting House immediately pre testimony and Ann immediately post testimony at the same table was a disaster in the making of Titanic proportions. Jensen looked around the room quickly. "I'll catch up in a minute," he said and hit another traffic lane in the crowd. Wilson saw him work his way through to Kutner and speak briefly to him, and then Kutner started toward Ann. Jensen rejoined House, Cuddy, and Wilson as they were almost to the door.

They went to House's favorite corner grill and slid into a booth. "Take the tie off while we're having lunch," Jensen recommended, and House pulled the thing loose from his neck with a small sigh of relief. His shoulders remained tense, though.

The waitress came for their orders, and House shook his head. "I'm not hungry," he said. An understatement. He felt sick right now.

"Greg, you need something," Cuddy protested.

"I . . . just a Coke." The waitress shrugged, wrote it down, and turned to the others. Wilson ordered what he knew was House's favorite burger and fries, but what really distracted House momentarily was when Cuddy ordered the same thing. The waitress took Jensen's order and left.

House turned to his wife. "Seriously? _You_ are going to eat a deluxe burger and fries?"

"Well, you keep telling me I don't know what I'm missing," she responded. He gave her a nervous smile, touched at the gesture, although he knew why she was doing it.

"Go ahead and take the omeprazole," Jensen suggested. House pulled the bottles out, found that one, and gulped it down. For just a second, the pill seemed to hang, and he wondered if this would be the long-predicted time when he really would choke on a pill. Fortunately, their drinks arrived just then, and he chased it the rest of the way down with a few swallows of Coke.

"Martin's good," he said. "Patrick's lawyer is a piece of work, though, as bad as the first one. Where do you suppose they find them? Amoral Lawyers Association?"

Jensen grinned, but his voice was firm as he spoke up. "The hearing is officially off limits as a conversation topic. We could all use a break before this afternoon."

Wilson obligingly threw himself into the volcano. "So, House, what do you think I need to do to make this with Sandra work?"

House irresistibly chased that point, even if he knew Wilson was only trying to distract him. "You might start with learning how to keep your pants zipped."

The oncologist flinched. "Yeah, I'd sort of worked out that part myself. She made that pretty clear, too."

"But you've had trouble with that in the past, so it isn't that simple, not for you. Maybe you need some help, like pants without a fly or something. Make it more difficult for you, throw a few technical barriers in the way."

Cuddy grinned, getting into the spirit of this in spite of her worry. "Greg's always said you were part woman anyway, Wilson. Maybe wearing women's pants would help. Shall I take you shopping this next weekend?"

"No," House insisted. "_Sandra_ needs to take him shopping. She can pick them out, and she can label all of them on the inside, too. Or even on the outside. Big block letters. PRIVATE PROPERTY."

Jensen chuckled. Wilson groaned and wondered how many karma points he was racking up here.

The food arrived at that point. Wilson placed his plate invitingly more to the middle than to his side. Cuddy's was also more or less between her and House. She eyed the burger and swallowed hard.

Jensen fished in the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a packet of the peanut butter cups he often carried. He tossed it over to House. "Here. Just imagine what your father would say if he knew you were having peanut butter cups for lunch."

House gave a weak smile and opened them up, nibbling disinterestedly on the first. "Then there's cutting out binge drinking," he said to Wilson. "I wonder if they make a special glass with sensors. Any drink with alcoholic content immediately falls through the trap door in the bottom and leaks out."

Wilson shook his head. "How do you come up with some of this stuff?"

House shrugged and swiped a French fry. "It's a great idea, though. Imagine the sales potential. Why hasn't somebody invented that yet?" He turned to Cuddy, who had finally steeled herself and reached for her burger with an expression of martyrdom. "You can't do it, can you?" he asked.

She glared at him and took a full-bite chomp, chewing it up thoroughly, swallowing it down. House's eyes widened. "Wow."

Wilson was impressed himself. "The things we do for love."

On the conversation went through lunch, with the other three trying to keep it in a playful vein. House managed five stolen French fries and the last bite of Cuddy's burger, as well as the two peanut butter cups. Beneath it all, though, he could still feel the clock ticking. He was down to mere minutes now. They all could hear it, apparently, and the conversation limped to a stop as they finished lunch.

House took a deep breath and looked at his watch. "We'd better get back to court." He picked up the tie, which had been crumpled on the booth seat beside him. _No ghosts_, he reminded himself.

Abruptly, Cuddy took off her ring, the one that had belonged to his grandmother. She handed it to him. "You wear it this afternoon, Greg. You'll have it with you, right there."

He looked at the ring and nodded, his throat suddenly gone dry again. He twirled the ring in his nervous fingers, studying the light interplay. Cuddy stilled his hands and slipped it on him herself, her ring just in front of his golden wedding band, the two circles touching. Wordlessly, he handed her the tie, and she carefully put it back on him, tying it again as loosely as she could.

House lurched to his feet. "I'm going to the bathroom. I want to put on a fresh heat patch, too."

"Good idea," Cuddy agreed. Wilson trailed him, and Cuddy and Jensen were left looking at each other across the table.

"He'll be all right," the psychiatrist reiterated. "He's much better prepared for this than they think."

"It still won't be easy."

"No."

Cuddy shook her head. "That snake. The lawyer, I mean. Can you believe what he did with Ann Bellinger?"

"I certainly hope she's going to be getting some therapy herself. The poor woman needs it." Jensen stood up, capturing the bill and pulling out his wallet.

"You don't have to . . ." Cuddy protested, but he was already halfway to the cash register. With a sigh, she headed for the bathroom herself.

Back at court, the crowd was just as packed as this morning, though they had changed identity a bit. Foreman was still present. The media didn't seem to have changed at all, and Cuddy abruptly wondered if any of them were over there in their media corner, still hungry and with legs crossed, afraid to slip out for lunch or even the bathroom lest they lose their spot.

Ann Bellinger was back, face tear streaked but steadier, and Kutner was now sitting beside her in the witness rows. They scooted over to make room, and Kutner fished in his pocket, then reached across Wilson and Jensen to push something into House's lap. "Here, take this with you."

House stared at the object in disbelief. "A rabbit's foot? You . . . of course you would carry a rabbit's foot."

"It's good luck," Kutner insisted.

House sighed. "Rabbit's feet. Lucky cereal." His tone was disgusted, but he did pocket the talisman.

"Lucky cereal?" Wilson asked.

"Later," Jensen said as the side doors opened. Chandler made his reappearance, still looking wonderingly at the judge's bench and at the empty stand as if he couldn't believe why he was here. The bailiff called them all to attention, and the judge entered.

Martin stood up. House took a deep breath, and Cuddy squeezed his hand. Jensen leaned over to whisper into his ear. "You _are not_ doing this alone. Remember that."

"I call Dr. Gregory House," the prosecutor stated.

The rustle in the courtroom was palpable, and for the first time all day, Patrick Chandler was unable to resist turning around to look back into the witnesses and the crowd. He quickly spotted House, and then his composure rippled, a brief fault line appearing, and his eyes widened in disbelief, his gaze fixed not on House but on Jensen.


	119. Chapter 119

Meanwhile, somewhere completely different . . .

I'm _kidding_. :) I'm not that cruel.

Thanks for all the reviews. This chapter and especially the next one are what it's all been building to from the first chapter. After you read this one, reread chapter 1 and chapter 4 for embedded clues regarding the opening thoughts of chapter 119, and you should see it now.

Roller coaster departing, gate one.

(H/C)

House saw Patrick's reaction, and his brain kicked into overdrive as he stood and started for the stand.

House had known that morning at PPTH when he first met Ann Bellinger at the elevator that Patrick was scrambling unsuccessfully through memory to place him. The only previous time he had met House was at Jensen's wedding, but there, House had been deliberately keeping in the background. Even the piano music, Melissa's choice of songs and not House's own, had been easy and lyrical but not attention grabbing, which suited him fine for that occasion, and his playing of it had been excellent but not showy. He'd even said when accepting the invitation to play that he did not want to be a center of attention, nothing like his own wedding, and they had honored in their plans. The only two times Patrick might have specifically noticed House for a moment, at the dinner table and at the piano, House had been sitting down, cane not apparent, and also had been better groomed and attired in clothes far from his usual nonchalant, wrinkled preference. Small wonder that Patrick had been unable to place the cane-wielding, rumpled doctor he encountered in a hospital six months later in a different state.

But Jensen was a different matter. It had never occurred to House that Patrick would recognize Jensen at the hearing, but now, he wondered why it hadn't. Not that Patrick and Melissa's cousin had regularly interacted with him, but the wedding alone was enough to secure Jensen in his memory. For one thing, Jensen and Melissa had been the center of attention, of course, the topic of a good bit of the conversation, no doubt including Jensen's profession. It surely must have given Patrick's arrogance a few strokes to be right there under the nose of a psychiatrist, acting like an innocent boyfriend of a family member, no one suspecting. Jensen had also been there in duplicate, and he and Mark had been playing their innocent games with the crowd all night at the rehearsal, either standing right beside each other or popping up solo into conversational circles without identifying themselves and getting a kick out of watching the confused audience try to guess. No, Patrick would _definitely_ remember Jensen from the wedding. No doubt Patrick had even noticed Cathy there, House realized with an inward shudder. Patrick would have been working on breaking Lanah's daughter, but surely he practiced mental "shopping" in any sort of large crowd, even if he was currently occupied. Cathy, though, would have probably been ruled out quickly in favor of easier prey. She was with a newly reunited family, and neither Jensen (either brother, even if Patrick was occasionally thinking Mark was Michael during the evening) nor Melissa came across at first or later glance as someone easily manipulated.

Thus, while he remembered Jensen, Patrick had _never_ tied Jensen and House together until this minute.

And that, House realized, was his big chance. That was what might break Patrick's composure. Because failing to connect the two earlier had been a huge error on Patrick's part. His search for information on House had led clear to Kentucky for Blythe's therapy notes, and all the while, he had totally overlooked a far closer and far more extensive source. Guessing the basic fact of House's background and knowing Jensen's profession, it surely would have been worth ruling out that House was Jensen's patient. Those notes would have been far more valuable to him. Instead, Patrick had gone to greater effort for lesser return, based entirely on his own inefficiency. He had never needed to manipulate Blythe for her therapist's name at all, because Patrick _already_ knew House's psychiatrist himself.

Of course, had Patrick or a minion gone to Jensen's office to search for data, they would have run straight into Jensen's security system. But Patrick didn't know that. All he knew right now was that he had had the largest possible source of data on House handed to him on a silver platter months ago, and he hadn't noticed it.

It was an undeniable mistake, the biggest of the whole plan, and Patrick had only himself to blame for it. No wonder he looked stunned. _That _was the point to push to try to get him rattled. House remembered Martin's comments about outbursts in court being considered contempt. Patrick had totally lost his temper once briefly, when he attacked House, so House knew that he _could_ lose it. If he could be provoked into losing it again today, he would shoot his own defense argument in the foot.

The whole train of thought had taken just a moment. House reached the stand, limped up the two steps, and took the witness seat, facing Martin and, beyond him, the crowd. He looked at Jensen, and Jensen's eyes slid from House to Patrick and back. The psychiatrist smiled. He, too, had quickly put together the meaning of that startled look from Patrick, although he also obviously hadn't foreseen it. If he had, there was no way he would have failed to mention the point to House in their pretrial prep.

One point to our side, House thought. But just scoring it wasn't enough. He needed to _push_ it.

Martin started out with basic professional questions, establishing House's reputation and sterling credentials as a doctor. House answered him while keeping one eye on Patrick. Chandler had settled back into his day-long facade. Just the one crack for a moment had been visible. Now once again, his expression looked exactly as House had imagined it from behind him all morning - bewildered surprise, inability to understand everything he was hearing and believe that _he_ had done it.

Martin finished thoroughly hammering in House's expertise. He even spent extra time on it, partly because it was important to establish that House regularly came to correct conclusions no one else did, but also partly to try to get a grip on his witness. He'd expected House to be nervous today, and House clearly was, but he also seemed a bit distracted even from his own testimony. He was watching Patrick a little too much, and not in the way Martin had expected him to. The prosecutor wasn't sure what was going on, but he had an uneasy feeling that he was missing something at the moment, that he and his planned course of questioning didn't quite have all of House's attention. That bothered him. Feeling that the witness is starting to drift to unpracticed waters on _direct_ is nerve-racking for any attorney. You expect the unexpected to possibly surface when the opponent arises for cross, although you hope it won't. On direct, you want foreknowledge of every last iota of testimony.

Finally, the prosecutor shifted gears away from general qualifications into the current case. "Dr. House, when was the first time you met Patrick Chandler?"

House answered almost eagerly, more eagerly now in front of the packed courtroom than he had in Martin's own office. "It was last March. I went to my psychiatrist's wedding, having been asked to play the piano there." House still had one eye on Patrick, and while he didn't name Jensen - he wanted _that_ much privacy from the media - he emphasized _my psychiatrist_ in the same subtle way that Bartle throughout the morning had emphasized _I'm sorry_. Patrick blinked, but that was all. The mask held. "While I was at the rehearsal and dinner the night before the ceremony, I noticed Chandler at the table."

"Why did you specifically notice him in the crowd?" Not a question that Martin really wanted to ask, but he knew Bartle would if he didn't. He needed to bring this out on direct so that he could also put his own spin on it.

House fully focused on the prosecutor for the first time, not looking at Patrick as he answered that one. "I noticed his hands."

"What about them?"

"They reminded me . . . of my father's hands." House looked back out into the crowd, looking toward Cuddy that time. She gave him a reassuring smile, but she also looked a bit puzzled. It was the first time he had looked at her since the questions started, and that surprised her. She, too, was sensing undercurrents here that were not part of the original plan.

Martin waited until House looked back at him. "Tell me about your father."

House tightened up. He wasn't looking at Patrick now, nor at the media cameras. Only at Cuddy. His right hand reached across to touch Oma's ring, securely against his own, the two together. "He . . . was extremely abusive physically and emotionally. It started when I was three. The physical abuse continued until my teens when I got big enough to fight back successfully. The emotional abuse continued all my life until his death two years ago."

Martin switched subjects back to the wedding rehearsal, giving House a few minutes now that he had for the first time in his life stated the basic fact in front of the world. They would have to go into far more detail, but let him have a minute's respite first to feel the sympathy and admiration washing up from the courtroom. Martin could feel it himself, even with his back turned to the audience. Even the judge looked sympathetic, although still stoutly professional. Everybody here, except for the two at the defense table, was impressed with House at the moment. "Back to the rehearsal dinner, Dr. House." House looked back from Cuddy to him with relief. "How did Chandler remind you of your father?"

"The attitude. The way he reached for something at the table. Like he couldn't wait to dominate it, to crush it with those hands." House knew better than to look at Patrick right now, not giving the man a chance to give a fresh subtle demonstration of those hands for a new kick in the memory.

"Do people often remind you of your father at first encounter?"

"No," House said definitely. "Not at first, not even later."

"Have anybody else's hands ever reminded you of your father's as Chandler's did that night?"

"No."

"Has _anybody_ else in your life ever reminded you this strongly of your father the moment you met?"

"Never." A rock-solid negative. Martin saw that this point was being received loud and clear by the judge.

"Do you ever have flashbacks?"

House looked back from Martin to Cuddy. "I . . . sometimes. Very rarely now. I've been in therapy for over a year and a half. With _my psychiatrist_." He suddenly remembered his forgotten subliminal goal here and tossed another salvo at Patrick, looking over at him briefly to watch it land. Barely a flicker. Damn it, the man was a good actor.

"Did you have a flashback that night?"

"No. I wasn't thinking about Dad at all. I was just sitting there people watching. Feeding my daughter. There was nothing to set it up. I was startled at the resemblance, but I stayed in the present."

"What did you do after noticing Chandler's hands?"

"Nothing. Simply continued eating."

"Did you ever speak to Chandler that night?"

"No."

"Did you speak to anybody else about him at the rehearsal?"

"I told my psychiatrist." House hit the words again subtly. Martin was starting to realize the insistence on the phrase now, and it puzzled the prosecutor. He wasn't quite sure what House was up to. "I went to him privately at the end of the evening. I told him that I had no proof of anything, just the similarity of attitude of the hands, but to be aware and watch out for his daughter if he ever met Chandler again. Just in case there was anything there."

"What did you do then in regards to Chandler?"

"Nothing. After the wedding, I returned to Princeton and went on with my life. He barely crossed my mind for six months."

"You took _no_ further steps to inquire about him? To track him down?"

"No."

"What happened in October of this year?"

"I was entering work one morning and ran into Chandler and Ann Bellinger at the elevator. I recognized him immediately. _He didn't recognize me_." House hit that firmly, a high-caliber shot, and glanced over. Patrick flinched slightly, then stilled. His expression never changed.

In that moment, Martin got it. He had to smile slightly himself. Okay, it was a valid and no doubt annoying point to the defendant. Let House subtly needle him if he wanted to. Martin relaxed a fraction, feeling now for the first time that he and his witness were totally on the same wavelength again. "That morning at the elevator, how did you recognize Chandler?"

"The hands again. He came up behind me and punched the elevator button, even though I already had. I knew it was him even before I turned around."

"Had you been thinking about your father that morning?"

"Far from it. I'd taken the previous day off for my younger daughter's first birthday. Had a thoroughly fun day with my family and was remembering points of that while waiting for the elevator."

"So out of the blue, at a point when you were perfectly relaxed and not thinking at all of the past, Chandler's hands gave you the same impression they had at the rehearsal."

"Yes."

"What happened then?"

"We rode up in the elevator. Ann was talking about her son, who had been admitted. Chandler was acting like Christopher was blowing little things out of proportion and nothing really was wrong. They got off at their floor, and I got off at mine. My team was already looking over the ER log from the night before - something we do every morning if we don't have a current case. I saw Christopher's name and a presenting complaint that included bruising, so I decided to take a closer look."

"Let me get this clear, Dr. House. To that point, you had done absolutely _nothing_ to pursue Chandler or try to gather information on him?"

"Right."

"What made you act then?" Martin asked.

"Concern for Christopher. I wanted to look at the case - medically."

"And if you had concluded that there was simply an innocent medical cause for Christopher's illness with no question of abuse?"

"I would have dropped the abuse question and just treated him for the medical cause."

"Do you think you were capable of making such a decision that morning, had it been the right one?"

"Yes," House said clearly.

Martin nodded slightly, satisfied. "What happened when you met Christopher?"

House looked back to Cuddy for a moment. "He was . . . _scared_. He was always watching Chandler, even if there were other people closer in the room. He would react immediately if Chandler moved, even if he was clear across the room. He did not want to give me any symptoms or make any physical complaints, and he would look at Chandler every time instead of answering that question."

"Are you certain he was not just scared at being in the hospital?"

"Positive. He was scared of Chandler. When one of my team members did a blood draw, he never even looked at the needle. Never even flinched. The nurses, the medical equipment - he hardly _noticed _it. He was focused on keeping track of Chandler, wherever in the room he was."

"What were your physical findings of Christopher?"

"He had a fever and general myalgias. Body aches. He had bruising on his arms. The boy _did_ have a clotting disorder, so that confused any issue of abuse. Those marks _could_ have been made innocently. But combining bruising with his attitude, I concluded that he was being abused, and that Chandler was the abuser. I also had a feeling that he was much more sick physically than Andrews realized. So I took over the case."

"And then you made the CPS call?"

"I told my team to start complete history and basic medical testing first. Then I went up to call CPS."

"So the medical work on his case _never _stopped?" Martin asked.

"No."

"You reported your suspicions to CPS. What happened then?"

"I went back to his room and spent the rest of that day solely working the medical case."

"You left the question of abuse _completely _to CPS and only worked medically?"

"Yes."

"In the middle of that day, Patrick Chandler attacked you, did he not?"

"Yes, he did. Right after the CPS worker got there. He was furious."

"Did you fight back?"

"No," House replied. "I dodged to try to get out of his way, but really, I was more annoyed at the distraction than anything."

"The _distraction_?"

House nodded, then remembered immediately that he had to answer verbally. "Yes. Chandler assaulting me, the feud over CPS. It was wasting time, time that I should have spent continuing to diagnose Christopher. I knew the boy needed every minute he could get. He was getting steadily worse all day."

"Chandler attacked you. How do you think Chandler knew you were the one who had placed the CPS call?"

House looked back to Cuddy. "I think that . . . if he was setting off all my radar, I was setting off his, too. I think he realized that day as he was around me for a longer time than the wedding, as he was paying attention to me then, that my . . . that my father or that _somebody_, anyway, had abused me."

"Were you having flashbacks that day?"

"No. A few memories, but everything fell to the background against the urgent medical case."

"You were not distracted working?"

"No, I wasn't."

"So you think this was just an undefined sense, a radar as you called it? Nothing concrete he could have noticed?"

House hesitated. "I _understood_ Christopher. I think Chandler saw me recognizing Christopher's reactions."

"What was your opinion of Patrick Chandler's attitude as that day progressed?"

"He still seemed like he'd rather be elsewhere. Even when Christopher was obviously getting sicker."

"Did you ever see him touch the boy affectionately, speak to him, attempt to comfort him?"

"No."

Martin pushed that point a little. "In the _whole_ _day_ of this 4-year-old boy being hospitalized and getting worse, you never _once_ saw his mother's boyfriend be comforting toward him?"

"Not once," House agreed. "Chandler was also trying to manipulate Ann Bellinger, even right after he assaulted me."

"How so?"

"He was immediately trying to tell her that I suspected her. Which of course I didn't." House looked over at Ann suddenly. "_She _was completely concerned with her son, and she _was_ comforting him that day. She helped him deal with the fear, even fighting down her own, and he responded to her touch. Never cringed, never pulled away, never looked nervously at her before answering a question. Nobody could watch them together and suspect her. He knew that she loved him."

Ann Bellinger gave House a look of gratitude, even though she clearly didn't feel she deserved the tribute. She was blinking fiercely. Kutner spoke to her softly.

"Did you ever see Chandler during that day seem to shift gears, to change attitudes? Did he ever seem like different people at different times?"

"No," House said definitely.

"And you spent hours with him fairly continuously, correct?"

"Yes. I was there all the way until Christopher's death the next morning."

"What happened after Christopher's death?"

"I went home, went to bed, took a day or two off. Lots of times, I'll be on a case for a few days straight, then take a few off. That's how I work. The next Monday, I returned to the hospital."

"Did you make any attempt to follow up on Chandler?"

"No. I do know the CPS investigation results, because CPS kept in touch with me. In fact, they invited me to the autopsy. I refused. I was afraid it would give Chandler something to object to just in case there _was_ conclusive physical proof of abuse."

"The CPS report, as has already been introduced, was inconclusive, and CPS dropped the investigation because of Christopher's death. There was no ongoing danger to the boy. What did you do after learning of that report?"

"I went on working," House stated. "The case was over. I'd lost. It happens, and any doctor has to learn to move on to the next patient."

Martin steeled himself as they approached deep water. House knew where they were, too. He was tightening up, but he had been doing remarkably well so far. "The evidence from Kentucky proves that during the following three weeks, Chandler illegally obtained a copy of your mother's therapy notes. That copy was found in his belongings when we executed the search warrant on Ann Bellinger's house. I apologize, but for the sake of understanding what Chandler did next, we need to introduce some data contained in those notes into the record." House swallowed hard and looked back at Cuddy. Martin went through the official procedure of introducing the notes into evidence, and then the copies were distributed to the judge and to the defense, clearly an empty formality in the case of the defense. House felt his hands start to tremble slightly. It was irrevocably done. Those notes were now _permanently _part of an official court record.

Martin finished introducing the notes, then looked back at House. "These are, of course, your mother's notes. Not your own." House looked slightly shell-shocked, and Martin was hoping to revive him a little by handing him a loaded weapon.

House gratefully took it and fired. "Yes. There's a lot more specifically about me in my own, of course, but Chandler missed an opportunity there. He never connected me with my psychiatrist, even though he'd seen me at the wedding." Patrick shifted slightly, but he still looked baffled.

"Fortunately, he never saw those more complete notes," Martin agreed. "Now, I'm going to give you a few specific phrases, all of which are expanded on in these notes, and I want you to tell me what they remind you of. First off, the phase, 'I'm sorry.'"

House looked at Cuddy, and his hand tightened on the rings. "I . . . when I was eight years old, I was five minutes late getting home once. I was trying to apologize to Dad. He said he'd prove that words didn't mean anything. Then he . . . he said, 'I'm sorry,' right as he pushed me down the stairs." Cuddy's expression was pure support and pride. He tried to anchor himself in it.

"This was a full flight of stairs?"

"Yes. A 2-story house."

"What injuries did you sustain then?"

"I broke my left arm badly. We even had to go to the hospital."

"He avoided going to the hospital, of course, unless there was no option?"

House nodded. "Yes. A lot of things I just . . . dealt with at home."

"And since then, the phrase 'I'm sorry' has been one that you detested, hasn't it?"

"Yes," House replied. Somebody shifted in the audience on a line of sight several rows behind Cuddy, and he focused momentarily. It was Foreman. The neurologist looked absolutely stunned, so many thoughts warring for possession of his usual impassive features that he clearly didn't know what expression to wear and so was trying out several in turn.

"Thank you," Martin said, trying to get House's attention again, which he could tell had shifted to the room at large briefly. House looked back at him. Martin took a half step sideways, lining himself up with Cuddy just over his shoulder so that House could watch both of them at once. "Okay, next association. Ice."

House shivered and removed his right hand from the rings long enough to run down the heat patch on his right leg. He could feel the warmth, extending into the leg. "He would . . . make me take ice baths . . . as punishment."

"Punishment for what?"

"Being late . . . not calling him sir every sentence . . . having a friend he disapproved of . . . looking at him the wrong way." Cuddy nodded to him. His hand pressed into the heat patch, his eyes locked onto hers.

"Thank you," Martin said again. "Next association. This one, if I may remind your honor, also was referenced in the last line in the log from the computer. 'I will kill her, and it will be your fault.'"

House's breathing was picking up. Rachel, he reminded himself. He had kept Rachel safe. He had kept Blythe safe all those years. The threat was an empty one now. "He . . . told me if I ever told anyone . . . he would kill Mom in front of me . . . make me watch . . . and it would be my fault." That was the hardest answer yet to make it through.

"This was a continuing threat, correct?"

"Yes."

"When did it start?"

"When I was three."

Martin was unable to stop from reacting slightly there himself, even though he'd already known the answer. He saw the quick flash of anger across the judge's face, too. "When did it stop, Dr. House?"

House's hand went back to the two rings. Both circles together, touching. "It . . . never stopped. Not until he died."

"Let me get this clear. _Even through your adulthood_, your father would reiterate this threat to you?"

"Yes."

"So overall, you heard that hundreds of times."

"Probably thousands," House admitted. His hands were shaking. He tightened the grip slightly, felt the bite of Oma's ring, and was glad of it.

"So even as an adult, you thought there was a chance the threat would really be carried out?"

"Yes. He . . . would _brag_ about killing people. He was a Marine. I knew he could. I still think he might have done it."

The waves of sympathy and compassion and support from the room at large were even stronger now, and even House felt them. He looked around surprised as Martin gave him a microbreak. Was that media woman on the second camera from the left _crying_?

Martin continued. "We know from Andrews' testimony that Chandler intended to try something else himself. We know from the sworn statement from the PI in Kentucky that he had been asked to break into your mother's home and steal a picture of her and your father together. We know from the dated entry on the log that Chandler had this phrase in mind. Given all of that, what do you think would have been Chandler's next move?"

"Objection," Bartle protested. "Calls for speculation into my client's hypothetical behavior on a point that never actually occurred."

"Overruled," the judge said, not even looking that way.

"But your honor . . ."

The judge did look at him then. "The question was clearly phrased as representing only Dr. House's thoughts, and my ruling was just given. We are not going to vote on that ruling, Mr. Bartle." Bartle sat back down with an annoyed air. Martin turned to House, not bothering to repeat the question. He knew House would hardly have forgotten it.

"I think," House said, "that Chandler meant to mutilate my mother in the photograph, print that sentence across the base, and plant it somewhere in the hospital for me to find."

Martin gave him another microbreak, letting the silence lengthen before tackling the next issue. Unlike the questioning in his office, here he had saved this one for last among the episodes he was bringing out from the notes. "We also know from Dr. Andrews' testimony that he was told by Chandler to dump carpet glue in your office. What is the significance of carpet glue, Dr. House?"

House's eyes locked back on Cuddy's. She tried to put all the strength and love she had in that look, shoring him up. "I . . . tripped once carrying a glass of juice. I spilled it and stained the carpet. Dad seemed . . . almost _nice_ for once right then. Said we needed new carpet anyway. Next day, he sent Mom away for the whole day. We replaced the carpet, and then he . . . he . . . _nailed _me down to the floor. With a piece of carpet across me, into the floor on each side. But it was . . . so tight I . . . was having trouble breathing. He left me for hours. All I could smell was the glue. There wasn't enough air. I thought I'd die. . . I _wanted _to die. It would be _over_ then. When he . . . came back, he . . . marched across me with his Marine boots. Then let me up."

Silence filled the courtroom for a full minute. House looked down at the two rings, then back up at Cuddy. Her eyes were glistening, but the absolute pride on her face was warming. It helped push away the memories. House swallowed, feeling his heart start beating again. Foreman, several rows behind Cuddy, shifted again, and House looked at him briefly. Foreman looked literally sick.

"Thank you for telling us that," Martin said after a minute. "Your honor, I would draw your attention to page 11 on these notes where this episode is described in detail. At that point in the notes, it relates that the smell of carpet glue is one of the strongest flashback triggers for Dr. House. So, Dr. House, when Dr. Andrews on Chandler's orders dumped carpet glue on the floor in your office, he was clearly trying to induce a public flashback at the hospital, correct?"

House cleared his throat before answering. "Yes."

"But his plan failed."

"One of my fellows told me before I got to the office that carpet glue had been spilled there." House looked directly at Foreman at that point. "He saved me that morning." Foreman still looked sick, not even a flicker of the usual ego that the compliment would normally have produced.

"Did he know this story?"

"No," House said. "There was a time years ago when the carpet in my office was replaced without my knowledge. I walked in, then immediately left. Refused to go to my office all day. Everybody at work noticed, but they thought I was just being eccentric as usual. I was even _trying_ to seem purely eccentric, no deeper meaning. But I think the smell that morning reminded him that I'd objected to carpet before, even if he didn't understand why."

"So let me get this clear, Dr. House. Did _anybody_ among your coworkers, anyone at the hospital, know of your past?"

House looked at Cuddy and at Wilson, on either side of Jensen. "My wife knew. My best friend knew. But I hadn't voluntarily told either of them. They discovered it accidentally."

"How long have they known?"

"One year, nine months."

"And your mother?"

"The same."

"So _none_ of your coworkers knew your past."

"No."

"And then Chandler had Andrews distribute the copies of Ann Bellinger's lawsuit specifically revealing your past and Dr. Hadley's illness. Had Dr. Hadley's illness been general knowledge around the hospital?"

"No," House said. "A few people knew because she had participated in some medical trials, but that fell under medical confidentiality. It certainly wasn't a topic on the grapevine."

"So Chandler widely revealed these two previously well-kept secrets to the entire hospital?"

"Yes." House looked back over at Patrick for the first time in several minutes. The mask was solidly in place as ever. Damn it. House had been forgetting to needle him the last several answers. He'd have to do a better job on cross.

"What was your reaction to this revelation?"

"Shock at first. Then anger. Then more anger when I heard about Hadley." House looked directly at Foreman again. "She didn't deserve that. She was a good doctor." From House, it was the highest compliment.

"Chandler even distributed the copies outside the hospital, didn't he?"

"Yes. He sent a copy to my in-laws."

"And they had not known your background to that point, either."

"No, they hadn't."

"So you decided to hire Mr. Douglas to investigate Chandler's background. What were your motives there?"

"I realized once I started thinking more clearly about it that since I'd seen him _at my psychiatrist's wedding_ with one woman, and only 6 months later, he'd been with another, that he was probably a serial offender, and possibly one with very rapid turn-around. I wanted evidence to convince Ann Bellinger what he had been, and I also was worried about other children in his past. And children in his future. I asked for evidence to convince her, but I knew even then that if there was anything concrete enough for CPS or the police, I'd turn it over to the authorities."

"As you did."

"Yes."

Martin smiled at him. "Thank you, Dr. House. So tell me, through the course of the events during Christopher's illness and since his death, how would you describe Patrick Chandler?"

"Manipulative. Scheming. Arrogant."

"Has he _ever_ seemed to you to have interspersed periods of gentler personalities with that one?"

"No. Even that whole day and night in the hospital. He was the same."

"And in spite of him, you feel that you did your best on Christopher's case?"

"Yes. Nothing I could have done differently would have saved Christopher."

Martin let out a soft breath and nodded. "Thank you again, Dr. House. No further questions." He turned to the defense table with a carefully sculpted air of absolute confidence. "Your witness."


	120. Chapter 120

House took a deep breath and looked over at Bartle. Patrick had leaned over just then, saying something softly to his attorney, and Bartle nodded. He stood up. His fingers were fiddling with the change in his pocket, the only visible sign of nervousness, but his face was nearly predatory. House realized now that even with Ann Bellinger, Bartle had not been going all out. He hadn't had to. This was different. House could feel the attitude in the courtroom himself firmly on the side of the prosecution. Bartle _had_ to break him on cross to have any chance here, and the attorney knew it. House steeled himself for the upcoming confrontation.

Bartle approached slowly, letting the silence extend for a moment, but his stride, while slow, was purposeful, and he actually went closer than Martin had, very close to the witness stand. House originally thought he was simply trying for a bit of psychological crowding, but as Bartle stopped in front of him, House tensed up far more than he had yet today, and his pulse skyrocketed.

_The man had carpet glue._

House forced himself to breathe, although the room suddenly seemed bereft of oxygen. Cuddy. Think of sex with Cuddy. His eyes flew to her, and his hand tightened on Oma's ring. Cuddy gave him a reassuring smile. She realized he was more on edge suddenly, but she thought it was just reaction to the upcoming cross. But she was _there_. Understanding all the details or not, she was there. Sex with Cuddy in the middle of his office. The tie pressed against his throat, and he remembered Jensen's sketchings. No ghosts allowed, he reminded himself firmly. Breathe, damn it. Keep a grip, House.

After everything in the last few weeks, they had still underestimated Patrick. All of the preparation had centered around subtle word play by the defense. None of them had dreamed that the other side would try bringing carpet glue itself into court. It had to be in Bartle's pocket, some small container that he had unlidded just as he stood. Now that House specifically looked, that right suit pocket was standing out slightly, held open by something in it. The small amount didn't matter. House was intensely hypersensitive to the smell, and he could feel the glue hovering in the air around him, even though he was sure no one else could.

Abruptly, he felt the fury rising in him. Damn the man, sitting over there trying to freak him out in front of the media and the world. Okay, if he wanted a contest, so be it. _This_, not the questions, was the cross-examination. It was a battle of wills, a question of who broke first, House or Patrick, and House was damned determined that it wouldn't be him.

"So, Dr. House." Bartle was smiling slightly, he and Patrick alone realizing what House was struggling with right now and enjoying the show. The emphasis he gave House's title made it far from one of respect. "Quite a sad story you've told us. I'm sure everybody will agree. Interesting, though, that up until one year and nine months ago, nobody else knew. At that point, three people found out simultaneously, although you say you didn't mean to reveal it. How long have you been in an established relationship with your wife?"

House looked back at Cuddy. He could feel his breathing up, and he desperately tried to remind himself that there was oxygen here. Nobody in the court room was turning blue and keeling over. There was _plenty _of oxygen here. "About the same amount of time," he admitted. Patrick had found out that they were only recently together from Andrews, no doubt.

"_Interesting._ You have known her for much longer, haven't you?"

"We've known each other for over 20 years." His hand tightened even more on the rings. He heard with surprise that his voice sounded steady, if tense. All those years of practice at putting on a front were coming in handy.

"Yet you just got together with her at the beginning of last year. Had you wanted a relationship with her before?"

"Yes," House said. He hated giving Bartle that answer, but he couldn't lie about Cuddy.

"But no relationship began until, so coincidentally, she found out this story. You were hoping to use that to spark her sympathies and get her attention, weren't you?"

"No. I didn't mean for her to find out."

"Oh, I think the timing is a bit too convenient there. Obviously, she discovered this tragic past and simply felt sorry for you."

House flinched at the word. Cuddy looked livid, shaking her head firmly. The judge abruptly jumped into the exchange. "Mr. Bartle, you will not use the word sorry again in any way at any point during your cross."

Bartle stepped back a bit to face the judge, all innocence. House savored each step of distance from that glue. "It wasn't intentional, your honor. It is a common word, after all. I simply forgot the specific associations here in the course of my question."

The judge looked at him steadily. "Forget again, and I'll give a summary ruling immediately on this hearing. Perhaps that will prompt your memory."

Bartle blinked, taking that point. He turned back to House, closing the distance again, playing his ace in the pocket. No ghosts, House reminded himself. Think of Cuddy. Just keep breathing. In, out. In, out.

"Why hadn't your wife gotten together with you earlier, if this story wasn't the catalyst?"

House looked back from Cuddy to the attorney. "That would be speculation on my part as to somebody else's thoughts. You seem to object to that."

A low rumble of amusement rolled over the courtroom, and even the judge smiled slightly. Cuddy gave House a 1000-watt smile. Bartle alone didn't like that answer. He changed topics.

"You also said that your mother discovered the story of your past at the same time."

"Yes."

"And she really had had _no idea_ before? Your own mother? Whose house you lived in while all of this, according to you, was going on?"

"She didn't know," House insisted.

"Do you really expect us to believe anyone could be that oblivious?"

House turned to face Patrick, taking the opportunity to also slide the witness chair back a few inches to the very rear of the box. "Sometimes people don't notice things. Patrick over there saw me taking part in the wedding of my psychiatrist, and even then, he didn't put us together and went chasing clear to Kentucky for a less direct source of data on me instead." Patrick flinched himself at that, then caught his composure. Just a flicker, just for a second.

Bartle hurried on. "But there is a difference between meeting somebody once previously at a social occasion and having someone live in your house for years without suspecting."

House looked briefly over at Ann Bellinger. "She never knew. Not everyone is equally observant, and some people are quite good at manipulating and fooling others. My father was one of them."

"Ah yes, your father. Who died about two years ago. Such another convenient coincidence that the only other direct witness to these actions died before you ever said a word to anybody. Oh, I know you told us about the threat against your mother, but the fact remains that there is no proof external to your stories that any of this happened, and you have gained quite a bit relationally from this tale."

House looked over at Martin, a silent appeal, and the prosecutor hit his feet. "Your honor, there is independent proof."

Bartle stepped back, surprised at that answer. The judge looked intrigued. "What proof, Mr. Martin?"

Martin came forward with the PPTH envelope. "I asked Dr. House yesterday in my office that same question. He said there is damage that shows up on some more recent records, although he doesn't have his childhood records. Here is a copy of an x-ray and also some shots from an MRI showing his right foot. You will notice that every toe except for the great toe has had multiple breaks."

Bartle stepped over to join the inspection of these in front of the bench, and House relaxed a fraction. He could still smell the glue, but it wasn't right under his nose anymore. He tuned out the conversation at the bench momentarily and looked out at Cuddy again. She smiled at him. House looked over at Jensen, sitting next to her with the gap between. Jensen was looking slightly confused and intensely analytical. Jensen knew that something beyond questioning was going on here; he just had no idea what.

Bartle's voice broke into his thoughts. "This could be from any kind of an injury, your honor. It could have been an accident. Something heavy fell on his foot, for instance."

The judge turned to House. "Dr. House, would you medically give me an opinion on these scans?"

"He's hardly objective!" Bartle protested.

"Which no doubt I am capable of taking into account," the judge replied.

House took a deep breath. "The fractures are different ages, but all are quite old. This precludes those injuries occurring at the same time, as would happen in a single accident - and any accident creating this many fractures in four toes would also have hit the fifth. These are not impact fractures, like something falling on it. They are _twisting _fractures. Totally different force of mechanism. They also have been set but amateurly, and a good orthopedist would notice that. I . . . I had to use Popsicle sticks and tape. I was just a kid."

The judge stared at him. "_You_ set them yourself?"

"Yes. Any competent independent doctor would think these scans looked very odd."

"What did he do to your foot?" the judge asked.

House looked back at Cuddy, cringing. "He would use . . . vise grips."

"On several separate occasions?"

House swallowed. "Yes."

Bartle shook his head. "This is ridiculous. You can't ask the witness to give an independent expert opinion on himself."

"If you want to challenge the medical evidence, Mr. Bartle, you'll have to wait for full trial."

"We can have more at full trial, too," Martin put in. "This was just what we could come up with last night in a hurry."

The judge nodded. "Mr. Bartle, for the moment, at this hearing, we will accept Dr. House's past as fact. You can dispute it at the trial if you wish, but for now, I will not permit any further questions on that line."

"Thank you, your honor," Martin stated. He gave an encouraging smile to House as he turned away. He, too, could sense that his witness was far more tense now than on direct, although he also didn't fully know why.

Bartle came back to House, the glue pressing in with each step. House cringed. Cuddy. Think of Cuddy in the office.

"Dr. House, you are on several medications, are you not?"

"Yes," House replied, not expanding on it.

"_What_ medications?"

House looked back at Martin, but the prosecutor gave him a sympathetic smile. It was a valid and potentially relevant question. "I use on a chronic basis Vicodin, prescription-strength ibuprofen, omeprazole, and zolpidem. I also have several other medications as needed, muscle relaxants if my leg is spasming, morphine for the really bad times. And occasionally Ativan." He looked briefly at Kutner and Foreman, who hadn't known that complete list. Kutner looked totally serious but sympathetic, not judgmental. Foreman still looked stunned by all he'd heard in the last hour.

Bartle smiled, looking predatory again. "Some of those are very high-powered medications. Morphine, for instance. You actually use morphine and yet are a practicing doctor?"

"I _never_ take the morphine when I'm at work," House insisted. "It's only for breakthrough pain. Any pain bad enough to require it would preclude me working anyway."

"Vicodin is a constant, though. But that drug, too, has several side-effects."

"It _can_ have several side-effects," House corrected. "The list of possible side-effects on a drug aren't statements that everybody will have all of them. I can work through the Vicodin - it doesn't even make me drowsy as it does for some people."

"But a potential side-effect of Vicodin is hallucinations. Correct?"

"Yes," House admitted. He longed to rip off that tie, but he knew that he wouldn't feel any less like he was smothering, not as long as Bartle had that glue open in his pocket.

"How do you know that some of your perceptions of my client, some of these things you thought you saw with Christopher were not drug-induced?"

House shook his head. "I've been on Vicodin for years, including several very stressful situations. In all that time, it has not caused hallucinations. And that day, remember, I was _not_ stressed at the start of it. I'd just had a day off for my daughter's birthday. I was well rested and relaxed when I got to work the morning that I made my first exam of Christopher and decided to call CPS."

"Do you have a legal prescription for all of the medications you are on?"

"Yes."

"And who is the prescribing doctor?"

House hesitated. For all of his needling of Patrick, he still wanted to keep Jensen's name off the record. Martin saw the pause and hit his feet. "Objection. That is not relevant."

"Your honor, Dr. House has a prior history of drug charges."

"And was acquitted. And the officer who was the driving force behind those charges against him has since been dismissed from the force for strong-arm tactics and padding evidence."

The judge considered. "Sustained. The medications themselves are relevant, but the name of the prescribing physician is not. I will take Dr. House's word that they are legal prescriptions."

Martin sat back down, and Bartle turned back to House. "You have said from the very first meeting that my client reminded you of your father. How do you know that you are not projecting memories onto him that colored all your perceptions?"

"I. . . there were differences, too. I've seen those from the beginning. If I'd just been projecting my father, I wouldn't have been able to see differences. And at times like Christopher's case, when I was wrapped up in the medical crisis, memories of my father were definitely pushed to the background. Everything I saw with Christopher and Chandler actually was Christopher and Chandler, not just my memories."

Bartle closed the gap even another half step. House could feel himself sweating. The glue pressed in. His hands were shaking, and he locked the right one even more tightly on Oma's ring, not even feeling that he was actually cutting the skin at this point. "But those must be some powerful memories. This man who beat you, used vise grips on your toes, nailed you down to the floor. You're saying you can just _dismiss _those memories at will and work completely objectively on a case where someone involved has a chance physical resemblance to him?" Bartle actually leaned in as he finished that question. House flinched sharply, but there wasn't any further back that the chair could go.

The judge spoke up. "Mr. Bartle, it isn't necessary to try to join the witness in the box. Back off a few steps."

Bartle retreated half a step and was saying something to the judge. House tuned him out, looking at Patrick. Damn it, the man was still collected, still with the mask in place. House didn't know how much longer he could hold out. He could feel his own physiological reactions to this battle increasing. He looked back over at Cuddy, trying to draw strength from her. She smiled at him, but she was also looking concerned now. She sensed that Bartle was getting to him. House looked from her to Jensen. Jensen was clearly conducting his own differential. His dark eyes met House's steadily, a reminder of the people he had there for him. House looked back to Cuddy, trying to remind himself of those people, but his hands were still shaking. He knew that Bartle was wearing him down. Martin, at his table, also looked concerned. He tapped his watch, trying to signal to House that he could ask the judge for a break if he needed it.

The judge. He could talk to the judge. That wasn't contempt. Suddenly House realized just how often in this cross examination the judge had come in on his side.

He didn't have to fight alone. Jensen had told him to remember that he wasn't doing this alone. There _was _a higher authority here.

Bartle turned back to House, a few steps away but still uncomfortably close, the glue still pressing into House's mind. _Just a weakling,_ John spoke up suddenly. House gritted his teeth and in that moment did the one thing which neither John nor Patrick Chandler would ever have expected him to do. He turned to the judge, cutting off the beginning of Bartle's next question.

"Actually, your honor, there is a reason he's trying to stand on top of me. He has carpet glue in the right pocket of his suit jacket."

The absolute silence ricocheted around the court room. The judge straightened up, and House saw the steely anger in his eyes. "_Carpet glue_? He actually _brought _some into court?"

Bartle was quickly scrambling to cover the situation. "Of course not, but this is _exactly_ my point, your honor. Dr. House clearly is projecting his memories onto current events, and those are twisting his perceptions. I even question his own statement that he doesn't have hallucinations."

House shook his head, a little more confident now that the judge hadn't laughed at him or dismissed the statement. "He has it, your honor. Right suit pocket."

"This man _clearly_ needs psychiatric help," Bartle insisted.

"Bailiff, please search Mr. Bartle," the judge stated. The bailiff came across, reaching first for the right suit pocket, pulling out the small cylinder. He handed it to the judge, and the judge took a sniff. His expression was thunderous.

"I think there's a lid, too," House said. "He was fiddling in that pocket when he first stood up." The unspoken request came through loud and clear. The bailiff extracted the screw-on lid and handed it to the judge, and the judge recapped the glue. House felt his shoulders go slack. Slowly, the air began to push back into the room. He took deep breaths.

Patrick Chandler promptly and characteristically stepped in to twist the situation. "Your honor, I had _no _idea my attorney would try something like that. It certainly wasn't my . . ."

Bartle snapped around on him. "Oh, no, you aren't leaving me holding the bag. I was acting on _your _instructions. This was all your idea, to have him fall apart in court and . . ."

Patrick was still looking at the judge. "Your honor, I don't know what this man is talking about. I have no memory of giving him those instructions, just like I have no memory of a lot of what has been testified to today."

"Oh, come off it," Bartle insisted. "You know we came up with this multiple personality bullshit between us. He's as sane as I am, your honor, and this was _his_ idea. He's been playing with you all day."

Patrick shook his head. "I have no idea what he's talking about."

The judge slammed his gavel down. "Order," he demanded sharply, speaking not to the audience - they were absolutely silent, spellbound spectators to the last few minutes - but to Bartle and Patrick. "Mr. Chandler, I have indeed been watching you all day, and you have been clearly waiting for _something_ to happen during Dr. House's entire cross-examination. Your attention level there has been different from the rest of the day - not on direct, specifically on cross. I find both you and Mr. Bartle in contempt of court, and Mr. Bartle, you will be reported to the bar association for extreme prejudicial misconduct." The judge looked past Patrick to the one defense witness waiting in the row behind. "Do you still wish to testify today, Doctor?"

The psychiatrist stood up and swallowed nervously. "My . . . um. . . examination of Mr. Chandler was conducted in a hurry due to the scheduling of the hearing. Based on what just transpired, I would like to have the opportunity to re-examine my findings and conduct more extensive tests before I go on record."

"An excellent conclusion. Dr. House's cross-examination, of course, is over. Mr. Martin, do you have anything else you would like to say?"

Martin stood. "No, your honor. I will let the last few minutes speak for themselves."

"Patrick Chandler, I find that there _is _sufficient evidence to commit you for a full trial on all charges, with the charge of contempt added to those, and I also rule that you be held in custody in jail without bail while waiting for the trial. Any further psychiatric testing can be conducted there." The judge smacked his gavel down again. "So ruled. Court is adjourned."

The courtroom erupted, people immediately coming to their feet, pulling out their cell phones, placing frantic calls and texts. The media pushed their way out as quickly as possible, heading for the trucks, racing to be first to get an update in to their respective networks. Chandler was quickly escorted out by his guard, and the bailiff took Bartle by the elbow firmly. House slumped in the witness seat, finally feeling that maybe, sometime in the next several hours, he might be able to relax. The judge leaned over from the bench and spoke softly. "Dr. House? I would be honored if you would shake my hand."

House finally released Oma's ring and stood up on shaky legs, reaching across to the judge. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_. You should have said something earlier."

House nodded. "I know."

The judge shook his hand, then frowned slightly as he let it go. "You're bleeding. Did you know that?"

Cuddy, racing up toward the stand, was just in time to hear the last comment. She _vaulted_ the low dividing wall, landing in the small witness box with him, and captured his right hand for a worried inspection just as he had been turning it over to look at it in surprise. There were several cuts across the inside of the fingers, bleeding fairly freely now that the pressure was released. House looked at his left hand, the ring. "I guess I was holding onto the ring that hard. I didn't even realize."

Cuddy kissed the hand, then let it fall for now, although she was already mentally taking inventory of the first aid kit in the car. "Greg," she said, "I am _so _proud of you." She embraced him fiercely, the two of them wrapped up in each other. The judge discreetly withdrew. Kutner pulled out his cell phone and took a picture of the two of them. Wilson elbowed him in disapproval, then shrugged and took a picture himself.

Cuddy finally released House, and they slowly worked their way down from the witness box. Jensen and Martin were waiting down at the prosecutor's table. "Well done," Jensen said softly. House met his eyes and nodded.

Martin was smiling like the Cheshire Cat. "I could almost hug you myself. That's all _on the record._ We've got Chandler being a manipulative bastard right on the court record, and this is all admissible in the final trial. He hasn't got a chance at diminished responsibility now. He just _killed_ his only defense." He reached out to take House's hand, then frowned. "You're bleeding."

"Do you have a handkerchief or something?" Cuddy asked. Martin, Jensen, and Wilson all immediately produced one. House rolled his eyes.

"Can't you at least wait until we get to the car, Florence Nightingale?"

She captured his hand and wrapped it up thoroughly. "No. Shut up, Greg."

He grinned. Kutner and Ann Bellinger had also come up to join the group, and she hugged House. He could feel her body trembling slightly. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he replied, not dismissing it for once. "Please, get some therapy for yourself. Trust me, it really does help you deal with things."

"I will." She hugged him again, then stepped back. Kutner trailed her as she left, intent on seeing her safely home and making sure she was okay for tonight.

Home. House suddenly thought there was no sweeter sounding word on the planet. "Let's go home," he said to Cuddy.

"Sounds like a great idea to me," she agreed. They left Martin packing up his briefcase and walked through the slowly thinning crowd in the courtroom, Cuddy, Jensen, and Wilson forming a sort of protective barrier around House. Everybody stopped to watch them pass, but nobody got in the way. Not until they had nearly reached the door, that is.

Suddenly, Foreman was there. He looked as pale as it was possible for him to look, and he also looked like he was hating every second of this, but he stepped out resolutely in front of House. House stopped, facing him silently. "I'm . . . I apologize," Foreman said softly.

House nodded. "Forget about it." Cuddy added her own silent epilogue to that statement, reminding Foreman that he couldn't forget about it to the point of quitting therapy. The message was received loud and clear.

Foreman stepped aside, and House, surrounded by his family, left the courtroom.


	121. Chapter 121

A/N: There was actually supposed to be ONE more chapter of MH, but due to schedule, it's been cut in two. This is all I had time for. So consider this chapter 121, and next one will be chapter 121 1/2. Next chapter wraps it up with a bow on top. And to answer the oft-asked question, no, there is no other Pranks story on the horizon as of yet. Depends totally on my muse. She is active as always, but none of the things she is currently processing over are House. We'll just have to see what turns up down the road. I threw SO much into building MH that I think she might want a break from it for a while, working on other things. Thanks again for all the reviews.

(H/C)

They couldn't completely escape the media, of course. The whole front lawn of the courthouse was basically a remote reporting location, and House and company walked right into it as they came out of the building. House tightened up and momentarily thought about running, followed of course by the still-bittersweet thought after all these years that he _couldn't_ run. They couldn't even accomplish anything by retreating and trying to pick another exit. Cuddy's car was _right there_ in the handicapped slots; using another door would still end up on the same side and only increase their walk to get there.

Cuddy's shoulders squared, and she took two firm strides toward the crowd, then hesitated. Her husband was still feeling a bit shaky, which she knew, and there was that front stone staircase. Her filleting the media while he fell down the stairs behind her would not be an improvement in the situation. Better to fillet the media once they were all safely on the ground. She fell back and took her husband's right arm - he had slid over to grab the rail on the left. She tucked his arm under hers in what she hoped just looked like a loving gesture to the audience, and House let the cane swing loose and just leaned subtly on her, making her wonder how much that wrapped-up hand was hurting now that he had noticed it. Jensen and Wilson, who had both had similar mental pictures of House tumbling down the stairs, relaxed. Help from either of them would have been even more obvious. Cuddy gritted her teeth, imagining pictures on all networks of House slowly limping down the stairs, but there was nothing she could do about it at the moment.

The pictures weren't taken. The pack of reporters had spotted them, of course, and they had the attention of everybody below, but to Cuddy's surprise and to House's, not one camera swung their way. The media just waited below until they landed on solid ground.

Then, of course, they closed in immediately. "Dr. House, could we get a brief statement?"

Cuddy started to snap off a reply, and House elbowed her. He had been looking at their faces all the way down, at first dreading the pictures, then dreading the pity that prevented them from taking them (him descending stairs was even too pathetic for the evening news?), then finally to his amazement realizing that there was none. Not one face had a trace of pity. It floored him. They had been in there; they had heard it all in painful detail. Even after that, there was no pity. There was instead only admiration and respect. He couldn't believe it and had spent most of that descent trying to disprove the evidence of his eyes. Even their question now was actually a question, not a demand. He sensed that if he had told them he didn't want to talk to them now, they would have put it off. And no doubt have tracked him down at PPTH or somewhere later, but for now, they would have put it off temporarily.

"I'll give you all one _brief_ statement, and that's it," he said, and he heard Cuddy's started hiss of breath. The media immediately accepted this rule and closed in. Multiple microphones were thrust in front of his mouth. The thought idly flashed through part of his ever-multitasking mind that he must look like some sports celebrity at a news conference. Another of John's predictions hit the dust. His father had told him often that the world at large would only care about him as a joke and a sideshow and would never want to hear anything he had to say.

"I'm very glad today is over and that Chandler is in jail where he belongs," House stated. "Today showed exactly what kind of a person he is, and I'm looking forward to the final trial, where he will hopefully get the life sentence he deserves. Meanwhile, at least, he is in custody, but we can never forget there are others out there. Please, parents, pay attention to your kids. Look out for them. You are the best defense they have." He hesitated. He actually could see tears in a few eyes. They saw him as a _person_. Not as a cripple, not as a victim, not as a failure. Even the media was seeing him as a person. "And everybody go home and hug your children tonight. Which is what I'm about to do myself. Thank you." He pushed on, and they backed off, satisfied. Cuddy had switched over to the left now, his non cane arm, but her grip was full of such love and pride that he suddenly wondered if that alone would hold him up if he threw the cane away.

They reached the car, and House climbed into the passenger's seat. Cuddy, still outside the car on the passenger's side, opened the glove box, immediately pulling out the small first aid kit, and he rolled his eyes again. "Lisa, I'm not dying." She didn't even reply, seizing his hand, and Jensen and Wilson closed up to block this scene from the crowd, although the media again had taken their dismissal and hadn't followed them. Cuddy unwrapped the handkerchief and carefully started cleaning the cuts with alcohol pads. House tightened up with a hiss as the sting hit.

"What do you want to do tonight, Greg?" she asked, trying to distract him.

"Go home and let the girls know things are all right. Not in detail, of course. Then maybe all go out to eat." He suddenly remembered the presence of the media, of the public who would see the news before tonight. He was too tired right now to face gratitude. "Or stay at home and eat. Maybe we can have a BBQ."

"It's November, House," Wilson reminded him.

House shrugged. "Is there a law against BBQ in November? Too good to limit to the summer months."

Jensen smiled. "Sounds like a great idea to me. Even so, I think I'll pass. If I leave within the next hour, I can still get home to eat with my family. And I'd like to take your excellent advice myself. I need to go hug my daughter." True, but he also knew that it was time to back off again. House was okay. He needed some space now, not the constant reminder of a therapeutic presence.

Wilson, on the other hand, didn't feel like backing off at all. "Sandra gets off in 20 minutes at 3:00 shift change. I can pick her up and come over."

"Sure, come on," House agreed. "Maybe you can stop by the store, too. Not sure we've got BBQ stuff in November. Pure oversight there."

Wilson grinned, slipping into the familiar role of friendly wallet. "I'll pick a few things up."

Cuddy finished bandaging House's fingers, and he slipped off the ring and handed it back to her. "I probably got blood on it."

She put it on anyway. "Shut up, Greg. Let's go home."

"See you in a while," Wilson said and peeled off for his own more distant car. Jensen got in the back seat, and Cuddy rounded the car to the driver's side. Jensen fished in his pocket, coming out with another package of peanut butter cups and tossing them over the front seat into House's lap. The psychiatrist hadn't missed that the second theme in House's requested evening, a short head behind family time, was _food_. He'd barely eaten at lunch. He had to be starving.

"Thanks," House commented, opening them eagerly, wolfing them down. Cuddy got in and looked at the wrappers, and he grinned. "You don't even have to eat a burger with the rest of us tonight, Lisa. I _know_ we've got salad at home."

"Good thing, because I'm not eating another burger. That crosses the line from sacrifice to punishment." She switched on the car, and they pulled out from the courthouse, heading home.


	122. Chapter 122

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Tornadoes.

So this is it. Thanks to everybody who has come along on this wild, long ride and reviewed all the way through it. Over 1700 reviews, wow. I have no idea what might come up next. We'll just have to see what, if anything, my muse comes up with. At the moment, she's happily perking on other stuff, not Pranks or anything House. That said, I really doubt that she could permanently abandon Jensen. Probably she's just taking a Pranks vacation.

Thanks for reading.

(H/C)

The trio exited Cuddy's car, and Jensen held back for a moment, letting House get a good lead on him. The psychiatrist thought that the girls, and possibly Marina, might plow straight over him without noticing if he were first through that door. He hesitated, studying with a smile the snow family (with snow cat) on the front yard, and Cuddy dropped back beside him, holding House's tie, which she had picked up from the front seat where he had discarded it within a block of leaving the courthouse.

"Thank you so much," she said softly. "I don't think we could have made it through last night and breakfast this morning without you."

"You're welcome," he replied. House, heading purposefully up the walk, was almost to the door ahead of them. "You need to start cutting down the dose on the sleeping pill again, but tonight isn't the night to start with it. Don't let him insist on trying that. He's had way too much stress today, even if it turned out well, and he needs solid rest tonight."

Cuddy nodded in full agreement. "I'll do my best. He can be a bit of a stubborn idiot at times, you know."

"I've noticed that," Jensen replied, and she laughed. It felt so good just to _laugh_, to have the tension finally ease. "That's actually why I mentioned it to you," the psychiatrist continued. "He'd be more likely to listen to you than anybody else, including me."

House meanwhile had made it to the front door. He braced himself before opening it and was indeed assaulted the moment the barrier swung away - assaulted not just by Rachel, which he'd expected, but by Marina, which caught him by surprise. The nanny was going a mile a minute in Spanish. "I've been checking TV since noon for an update." She kissed him on the cheek. "You were _wonderful_." Abby, in her arms, was doing her best to scramble over, and House took her. Rachel was clawing at his leg, although even in her eagerness, she was careful to make it his good one. House looked down at his older daughter.

"Just a second, Rachel. I . . . can't pick up both of you at once." He didn't want to try it even standing still right now. His legs still felt slightly shaky. He limped to the couch and sat down, and Rachel immediately piled into his lap, as did Abby, as did, to his surprise, Belle. The white cat emerged from the hall and landed on the cushions beside him. He hugged his girls firmly. Jensen and Cuddy made it inside, and the door shut.

"Okay?" Rachel asked. She couldn't understand current events, of course, but she knew that he had been worried and wound up the last few days, and breakfast this morning had truly scared her.

"Okay," House reassured her. "Everything's okay now."

"So it was on TV already?" Cuddy asked. Marina nodded, but Rachel, hearing the word, jumped in before the nanny could speak.

"Dada on TV! Missed it, Mama."

Cuddy grinned. "I'm sure I'll see it later."

It was Abby who noticed House's bandaged hand. She reached out and gently patted the fingers. "I'm okay," he assured her. "Just cut myself a little." Rachel, concerned, made her own hands-on inspection. "I'm fine," he insisted. "Might not be able to play the piano as well for a day or two. That's all."

Cuddy turned to Marina. "You can go home early, Marina. We're taking the rest of the afternoon off. We're going to have a barbecue."

Marina raised an eyebrow. "In November?"

"Going to call the police and file a complaint?" House challenged. "What would that be, disturbing the season?"

The nanny smiled, unable to completely ignore him as she usually did. "I'll go on. I need to go home and hug my kids. Even though they're old enough they'll be embarrassed."

"Hug my kids," Rachel repeated, obviously fixating on the line of House's televised statement that had stuck in her mind. She hugged House again. "And play the ice game?"

The ice game. House gave a bittersweet smile. She had no idea, and he vowed that she never would, at least not first hand, only in stories much later. "We're not playing the ice game tonight, Rachel. Some other day, okay? We're going to have a barbecue. Wilson will be over in a little while."

Marina gathered her purse, then came over to give House another quick hug herself. "I was _sure_ you could do it," she insisted. "After all, you had lucky cereal."

House laughed. "I'm sure that made _all_ the difference, Marina." The nanny disappeared into the kitchen to retrieve her crock pot, then left, calling out a goodbye to the girls.

Cuddy put down her purse and sat down in the chair, suddenly exhausted. House read it, of course. "You okay, Lisa?"

"Just tired," she reassured him. She knew he was exhausted himself, though he was still a bit too wired to feel it completely. Jensen was right. He needed a long, sound night's sleep tonight. She looked around, realizing abruptly that the psychiatrist had vanished.

As if in answer to her thoughts, he emerged from the guest room, suitcase in hand. "I'm heading back to Middletown," he said. "I'll see you Friday."

House nodded. "Thanks." He hesitated, then plowed on. He hadn't really meant to ask this in front of Cuddy, but he was under a pile of daughters at the moment and could hardly follow the psychiatrist out for a quick word in private. "Did you know what was going on?"

Jensen knew what he wanted, of course, and he obligingly gave it to him. "No. I knew something was going on, but not what. Everybody there could tell you were under stress, but nobody realized how much. You weren't falling apart. You were putting up a very good - and _completely unnecessary_ - fight."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it." House had relaxed, though. If Jensen hadn't put it together, nobody else in the courtroom had, either. He hadn't been going visibly to pieces on the stand. Which still amazed him, considering. He looked down at his bandaged hand. "It really helped. All that reconditioning, plus the ring, of course. I don't think I could have taken that a week ago." He shook his head. "After everything, we still underestimated Patrick."

Jensen nodded. "We did. But it goes both ways. Even after everything, he underestimated you." The psychiatrist picked up his suitcase, which he'd put down, and headed for the door. House didn't need a session right now; he needed to decompress. He had just been still fighting a bit of the old worry of whether he had looked like a weakling in front of the crowd. "Goodbye, Dr. House, Dr. Cuddy."

"See you Friday," House replied. "Tell Cathy thanks - for the fudge."

Jensen turned around and smiled at him. "I will." He exited the house, and a minute later, they heard his car start up and head out. House took a deep breath.

"Just the family now."

Cuddy smiled at him. "Just the family now. Enjoying a nice evening together at home."

"Home," Abby repeated. House tightened his grip on his daughters.

(H/C)

Wilson and Sandra arrived about an hour later with, of course, more than was required from the grocery store. The oncologist was incapable of picking up just a few items of food. Soon the grill was sizzling on the back porch, with the adults drifting in and out, making sure the girls didn't stay out too long in the bitter November air.

House took the opportunity at one point to speak to Sandra as she passed him. "How was the appointment?"

She smiled. "Everything seems fine. He agreed with the prescriptions you gave me."

House rolled his eyes. "Of course he did. I was right."

"Yes, you were right. They're helping, too. Anyway, basic exam, routine blood work. Followup appointments. The usual."

"Did you get a full STD panel?" House asked.

Her expression answered him, surprise, then resignation. "No. I'll call back tomorrow morning and add more tests."

"You need to know. For the child's sake as well as yours. You never know what fun diseases might be attending a medical conference."

She flinched. "I know. Just didn't think of it today." She hesitated. "House, do you think he can . . ."

"I don't know," House answered honestly. "He's got a lot to work on, but people can change." He took a deep breath. "As I ought to know."

Cuddy emerged from the house just then with Abby and Rachel, giving them another brief period out, and Rachel raced up to her father. He turned over the spatula to Sandra and stepped back a safe distance from the grill, scooping Rachel up and hugging her again. "Hey, kid. It's been what, five minutes?" He tickled her, and she laughed.

Wilson stood inside, watching the scene through the kitchen window. He had been watching House and Sandra talk, had seen her deflate slightly in response to something House had said, and now he watched her watching House, Cuddy, and the girls. A family. Her expression was longing, wistful - and uncertain. Wilson sighed, seeing again the mountain range ahead. Would he ever achieve what House had, a happy family? He knew he would try. He wished right now for nothing more than to be able to wipe that uncertainty off her face, to erase his mistake of a few weeks ago, but he knew he couldn't erase it. All he could do was work to change and not repeat it. But watching her watch the House family was another reminder of how much he had to work on and of how much he had almost thrown away.

The doorbell rang, and Wilson turned, surprised, and then headed to the front door. The media would be hopefully leaving House alone tonight after his statement earlier, even if they sniffed out the unpublicized address, and Wilson couldn't imagine who else it might be. House and the girls entered the house again just as Wilson reached the front and opened the door.

It was Kutner. "Hi. Is House . . ."

"Kutner!" House himself came into the living room, holding Abby. "Smelled BBQ clear across town?"

"No, I . . ."

"What about Ann?" Wilson asked, making sure that responsibility was not being abdicated here.

"She had a friend show up. The friend couldn't get off work today to go to court with her, but she's there for the evening."

"Leaving you free to come pester us," House commented.

Kutner gave a sheepish grin. "I hate to bother you, but I forgot to ask for my rabbit's foot back."

"I would have given it to you tomorrow."

Kutner shook his head. "I always take it out of my pocket before going to bed and put it on my nightstand. It's part of the night routine. I'm not sure I could sleep if . . ."

House laughed. "Come on in and have a burger."

Kutner, delighted as always to be included, entered the house and closed the door.

(H/C)

Much later that evening, after a wonderful barbecue with their friends, the girls were down asleep, and Cuddy emerged from her bathroom. House was sitting on the bed, rubbing his leg absentmindedly, his posture saying more than his words would. "Did you take your meds?" she asked.

"Not yet," he replied, and she had a private, inward smile. He wasn't trying to avoid time with her tonight. "I was thinking, Lisa."

"You always are," she replied when he paused.

"In another week or so, when the glue is _totally_ gone, I'd like to go back to my office some night. When it's more about us than therapy. I don't want to leave the memory on that note."

"It was never totally or even mostly about therapy," she assured him. "But I agree. Only _well_ after hours, on a quiet night when nobody is around the offices . . ." She trailed off as he started laughing.

"Ever the administrator." He relaxed. "Come here, administrator. I think I could use another one of your specialty massages after today. Got a few stiff parts that need working out."

Cuddy was glad to oblige.

(H/C)

Cuddy and House entered PPTH on Tuesday morning, side by side. He could feel the looks, could feel the attention. Not pity, he reminded himself. It's not pity. He still remembered the media yesterday, asking him for a statement but not judging him, not prying into more details of his past than he had already been forced to give. But that had been the media, impersonal if annoying. This was his workplace. There was an Everest of difference between the two, and he still especially _hated_ the thought that everybody here now knew. The people he worked alongside, the ones he saw every day. That could never be undone. They _all_ knew.

Damn Patrick.

Cuddy gave his arm a subtle squeeze. "I'll see you at lunch, Greg."

"See you then." He continued toward the elevator as she peeled off to her office. Hypersensitive, he noted every look, heard the rustle as he passed each cluster of people, and as he stopped and stabbed the elevator button, he heard a new nurse nearby comment in what she thought was a private, whispered point to the nurse beside her.

"That's Dr. House, isn't it? I saw him on TV last night. He's the one who . . ."

The more experienced PPTHer cut her off. "Yes," she said softly, "that's him, but I'll tell you right now the most important thing you need to know about Dr. House." She paused. House pricked his ears, mentally filling in the blank with possible answers. The one the nurse continued with hadn't made his list. "He can be a real jerk at times to work with. Watch out for him."

The elevator door opened. House's smile widened, and his shoulders squared just a little bit. With a firm stride, he entered the elevator, heading up to his office to start another work day.


	123. Chapter 123

Preview of Coming Attractions. This preview is rated G for all audiences.

No sighting of a full Pranks story on the horizon yet, though plenty of other things active as usual. But yesterday while driving, I did have my muse throw out an idea, surprising me as usual. I know better than to expect where things might go next, as she dislikes suggestion even from me, but this isn't what I would have expected if I were expecting anything. She is totally beyond my control. Anyhow, fic construction in progress, a one-shot, though probably a longish one. Sick Day. The family that's sick together sticks together. :) No Jensen, though mention of him. No unfair cross-examinations, no defense attorneys with hidden carpet glue. A pure family story, though far more Wilson than any of the House-Cuddy family would have chosen to have on that day.

Coming soon to a screen near you.


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